


You Came Just Like A Flower In My Darkest Hour

by graceling_in_a_suit



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: (Jay is sick in this fic but nobody dies), Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Cancer, Demisexual Harry, Jazz - Freeform, M/M, Marriage equality exists in my version of the 20s because i said so, Mute Harry, Mutual Pining, Sign Language, Writer Louis, loosely (LOOSELY!) inspired by Harry's gucci shoot, magical spells, very anachronistic because idc that's why
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-14
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-09-17 14:05:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 44,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16975986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/graceling_in_a_suit/pseuds/graceling_in_a_suit
Summary: Harry had spent a thousand years as the king of a false kingdom, no one but his empty-minded subjects to distract him from his loneliness. Then, he saw a stranger in a mirror to another world. He was exquisite, this stranger; Harry wanted nothing more than to know him, if only he could be free from the spell that kept him trapped.But even once his wish had been granted (at the cost of his voice), and he'd gotten to live in the stranger's world and in his house and in his heart, the spell would not be so easily broken.





	1. The Heart is a Tree of Mystery and Splendour

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lululawrence](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lululawrence/gifts).



> Hey Sus, do you remember 84 years ago when you sent me a prompt about Harry's gucci shoot that's only similar to this thing that I wrote it you squint really hard? 
> 
> Well I finally finished it! And I'm gifting it to you because this is entirely your fault. <3
> 
> The title is from 'Cereus Bright' by Cereus Bright, please listen to that song it's so beautiful.

There was something about spring that made Harry feel lonelier than any other time of year. He had his duties to do with the upkeep of his kingdom to distract him through the harshness of winter, his exhaustive reading list to distract him through autumn, and summer was a season for hosting balls and celebrating with his people. But spring…

Spring was a time for love. The lambs in his garden pushed themselves onto their feet for the first time, their mothers bleating encouragements. His people spent their days making music in the village—the same three songs, without fail—or harvesting the kingdom’s fruit as they soaked in the sunshine.

Harry sighed as he leant back against his favourite tree, the bark digging into his back, familiar in its ridges and weight. He ran his hand over the piglet in his lap, smiling softly as it snorted and burrowed further into his stomach. Even though the Royal Tailor wouldn't care about the abuse of her painstaking creations, Harry felt a little bad about dirtying them. But this creature was only a week old and the weakest of it’s litter; how could Harry resist? Harry had found the little sweetheart stuck in a pile of leaves as he left the castle to come outside and soak in the sunshine (something that did nothing towards lessening his brooding). 

This piglet would have a short, happy life. It would eat and sleep and play and love and then, with any luck, die no sooner than when it's time came. 

Harry had been ruling his kingdom for almost a thousand years, he had seen this cycle more times than he could count. He sat in his library, ruling and making decisions for his people, all the while he was frozen in time as the world passed him by. 

He thunked his head back against the tree, closing his eyes and focusing on the sound of the fountain to his left. The water was green with algae, as rundown as most of his castle grounds had become, but Harry didn't have the heart to order his staff to clean it up. Who was he to interrupt the choices living things made of their own volition, when he wanted so desperately to be like them? 

Harry heard footsteps approaching, but he kept his eyes closed. 

“Sire?” a voice asked. 

Harry sighed and opened his eyes. “Yes, dear?”

His page shuffled nervously, his hands ink-stained and wrinkled, smearing a small black stain over his waistcoat as he smoothed his hand over his stomach. It was the kind of small detail that used to trick Harry into forgetting how fake it all was. His subjects all had their little quirks, but after even a hundred years Harry had grown bored of the repetition in this elaborate illusion. “The Northern Duke would like to renegotiate our trade agreement to include persimmons, because his crops were damaged by a fungus—”

Harry waved his hand dismissively. He'd lost interest in the repetitive trading squabbles he was invited to partake in somewhere between winter and spring. The piglet blinked up at him, distracted from its nap by Harry's movement. 

“Give him the persimmons, Jean, I'm sure you've already made arrangements for our compensation.”

Jean still looked nervous. “Well, my liege,  _ about _ that…”

Harry raised his eyebrows. “Yes?”

“What I requested in return was the loan of the Duke’s World Glass, as you instructed when we negotiated last.”

Harry stood at once, careful to move the piglet off his lap. He met Jean’s nervous expression with a wide-eyed one of his own. “Did he say yes?”

Jean nodded with a tight smile. 

Harry covered his mouth with his hands. “I've heard tale of his World Glass, they say it puts all the others to shame.” 

Harry himself was in possession of the remaining four, but in all his years of trying he'd never managed to complete his collection (even temporarily). He had presumed he wasn't meant to, that the fifth glass was intended to remain forever just out of reach. 

Jean smoothed a hand down his stomach once more. “Yes, well, you'll find out in three days hence when it arrives.”

Harry blanched. “He's sending it by horseback?”

Jean wrung his hands. “He didn't seem very concerned about its safety, sire.”

Harry fixed the cuffs of his embroidered blazer, surprised by how offended he was at a figment of a magical spell’s lack of care for his possessions. “Well, he's always been a fool. Is that all?”

Jean nodded meekly. 

Harry knelt to pick up the piglet, gathering its little body into his arms. “In that case, I'll return to my important royal duties,” Harry deadpanned, lifting the piglet into his shoulder and smiling as it nibbled at his golden crown. 

Jean, to his credit, seemed unphased. “As you wish, my liege.” 

With a swift bow, he disappeared back into the castle. 

 

🜾🜾🜾

 

Harry awaited the arrival of the Duke’s World Glass with a level of impatience that surprised everyone around him. His page, his cook, his administerial assistants, his advisors, his maids—everyone in the castle, really—was used to Harry's mood being some form of benevolent apathy, so the change of pace was unwelcome and unsettling. Not that anyone dared voice their concern—or were even able to. 

It was the longest three days Harry had experienced in several hundred years. 

At first, he had enjoyed collecting the World Glasses, wasted weeks on end spying on the little creatures within and coveting their simple lives. It was an escape, of sorts, from the pressures of ruling a kingdom made from sand. 

Alas, even the novelty of other worlds wore off eventually.

But the world within the glass that arrived on horseback three days later was  _ new,  _ something  _ different.  _

Harry almost couldn't contain himself as they carried in the shoddily-wrapped parcel concealing his newest treasure. He followed as two of his guards worked in seamless tandem to carry the object upstairs and into Harry's personal quarters. 

He waited until he was alone to peel back the sheet covering the fifth World Glass. 

Within the glass, sharp and clear as if he was watching through a window, he could see a room. It was softly lit, light streaming in from an open window, floral-patterned curtains blowing in the breeze. Harry drunk in every detail of it; the plush furniture gathered around a fireplace, the bookcase along the wall crammed full of titles Harry couldn't read, the strange contraption sitting in the corner—a box on top of a table, housing a flat disc, an arm with a small needle, and a flared horn attached to the side. The room seemed at once familiar and foreign, just on the edge of what Harry could recognise as normal. Abruptly, the door on the far wall opened. Inside walked a young man. 

Harry’s gaze flickered over him, enraptured as he walked over to the odd box and set the needle on the disc. It didn't seem to do anything, but a smile washed over the man's face as the disc spun and spun. He leant against the wall, content to bask in whatever invisible effect the machine was producing. Harry took in his clothing—soft brown pants, a crisp white shirt, and an intricately embroidered waistcoat. Harry made a note to himself to ask the tailor to craft something like this for him, he quite admired it. Or, perhaps, it was just the stranger he was admiring. He was just on the edge of manhood, a soft-looking thing with a dusting of stubble and feathered hair that almost brushed against his collar. When the stranger opened his eyes to gaze out of the window, Harry almost sighed.

His eyes were as blue as the sky itself. Harry had always admired blue eyes. At once, he felt a wave of crushing loneliness. He wished so dearly to reach through the glass, to talk to this young man, ask him about his world and the spinning disc and his  _ name  _ and—

Harry stepped away from the mirror. Perhaps this had been a bad idea, to lose himself in the fantasy of other worlds when he had one of his own—entirely his own—to care for and entertain him. 

And yet, he couldn't help but glance back at the mirror. The other four had been so different to this one; a brightly coloured desert, an underwater reef, a rainforest with strange creatures hiding amongst the trees, and a peaceful field. The latter had always been Harry's favourite; he enjoyed sitting for hours and watching as the bees flitted from flower to flower, stems waving in the breeze. 

None of them had contained a  _ person.  _ A real person! Someone who still moved when Harry wasn't watching them, who breathed and lived and thought for themselves.

Harry Styles had spent a millennia in the company of shadows, and this exquisite stranger was a brilliant spot of light in the darkness. 

Harry spent the next week in a sort of trance, barely talking to his people. During the day he would sit in the sun, enjoying the company of the palace’s newborn creatures, trusting his page and advisors to run the kingdom in his stead. Every night, he sat in front of the glass, watching the man. 

Ignoring his duties to pry into the life of a stranger was a dangerous rush. Harry had spend hundreds of years making himself busy, trying to forget how pointless it all was, the upkeep of a false kingdom. The man’s life wasn’t false. It was real and addictive, even if all he did every night was sit in the room and read by the fire, or sit at the desk by the window and clack away at a contraption that seemed to produce words out of nothing. One notable evening, Harry had the pleasure of seeing his stranger entertain guests: a tired-looking woman much older than he, similar enough in the face for Harry to assume she was his mother, and four young girls. They were lively little things, especially the smallest two, and Harry’s face hurt from smiling after watching the man push away all the furniture from the centre of the room so he could dance with them. Harry wished the World Glass allowed him to hear what music they were dancing so merrily to, if it was something he would like to dance to also.

Although, at this point, it could have been the most grating noise Harry had ever heard and he would still dance to it, if the stranger asked. 

A month spent consumed by thoughts of the world he saw each night, and Harry was almost driven mad with longing. 

He was passing the palace library on his way to breakfast when an idea occurred to him. He entered the library, passing the rows upon rows of dust-covered books. Harry had read every volume in here several times, but after a hundred years he’d grown tired of the same words. He’d gathered his favourite twenty or so novels to keep in his quarters, and he hadn’t really had reason to be in here since. He also hadn’t had reason to specify to the cleaning staff that this room be upkept, so it had fallen into an unfortunate state of disrepair. 

He found what he was looking for in the darkest corner of the library, where a pedestal stood, tucked away from light and time. Harry took a fortifying breath before he approached. He could already feel the waves of power flowing off the book that sat on the pedestal, as innocent and awesome as the day he had found it. He reached a shaky hand towards the front cover, fighting through the memories, the mistakes that had led him here. 

Just before his hand met the red velvet of the cover, Harry curled his fingers into a fist. He shook himself off, taking a step back. 

When he fled the library, all that remained of his moment of indecision was a set of footprints in the dust. 

Harry carried on in that way for another month. Spring was at its peak, and the piglets and lambs and kids had gotten used to their shaky legs. They wreaked havoc on the palace’s foliage, even though Harry had staff to care and feed them. 

It was something Harry could never quite work out, a mystery that had plagued him ever since his first year as ruler: were the animals in the kingdom false? Their simple joyfulness had always led Harry to believe they were the only real thing in his life, but now he was questioning even that. He watched them play from his bedroom window, dressed in a loose robe and still rumpled from sleep. He catalogued their movements with an analytic eye, and found them to be just as robotic as his subjects. Their actions played in a loop with enough diversity that Harry could understand why he had been fooled, but was noticeable when he really looked for it. 

The revelation that there really was nothing real about his kingdom had been a long time coming. It had been a thought lingering at the back of his mind for a long time, half-formed and melancholy. Harry sighed, resting his head against the window. 

“Sire, would you like breakfast to be brought to you?”

Harry turned to his page with a tired smile. He was standing as straight as always, smoothing a hand down his stomach. 

Harry had a horrible urge, then, to twist the knife in deeper, to push this illusion as far as it would go. He could ask Jean to throw himself out of this very window and he  _ would _ , because that was his purpose. 

But as mad as his many years of loneliness had made him, Harry had never been a cruel man. 

So he just nodded and turned back to watching the lambs. 

Harry spent the rest of that day in front of the Glass, even though his stranger was absent for most of it. He was a busy young thing, coming and going all the time. Harry liked to imagine what his occupation was—a scribe, perhaps, with all the time he spent at his desk. He seemed only a year or so older than Harry himself had been before he cursed himself with this life. Today, when he returned to the room, he looked tired. He collapsed into the armchair by the fire and ran a hand down his face. Harry couldn't help it; he lifted his hand and pressed it against the glass. He had an urge like the one from that morning to press and press until the glass broke, just to  _ do  _ something, to stop feeling so helpless. 

He took a step back from the glass, lest he do something he would regret. He lifted his hand to run it through his hair, then he remembered his crown. The steady weight of it was something he'd learned to tune out, but all of a sudden it felt as heavy as the Palace itself. He ripped it off and stared at it in his hand, the delicate gold leaves. Like everything else in this illusion, he had been so enamoured with it at first. The lifestyle, the clothes, the people to care for and the power he held; it was everything he had asked for. 

And it had only taken a thousand years for him to realise he no longer wanted any of it. 

When he entered the library this time, he didn't hesitate. He strode towards the pedestal with purpose, and pulled the book open. 

The cover made a sharp  _ bang  _ as it hit the wood of the pedestal, but Harry was too busy staring at the page to notice. 

It was just as it had been a thousand years ago; a mess of Latin and sigils. Harry remembered the day he had stumbled upon this book. He had been a palace servant his whole life, raised by a maid and a cook to carry out orders and  _ obey _ . He'd been snooping where he oughtn’tve, always a curious boy, and he'd stumbled across the book hidden away in shadows. He couldn't read Latin, but he'd been so intrigued that he'd spent several months translating the first page he saw—the very page in front of him now—stealing time in between his duties to take a candle to the library and study it. Eventually, he unlocked the secrets of the text. 

It was a spell. Its purpose was to summon a creature of great power.

Harry had come to regret ever invoking its name, but he'd been younger then. 

A thousand years younger. 

And here he was, about to make the very same mistake. 

He squeezed his eyes shut as he spoke the words on the page. His latin had improved since that very first time he'd read the spell—he'd had time to learn many languages—but it still sounded like a rusty, sharp-edged blade piercing through the silence of the library. 

He repeated the words over and over again, growing in frustration and desperation as nothing happened. He was about to pause and double check he'd gotten the right page—even though he was sure he had—when a wave of coldness passed over him. 

He opened his eyes cautiously. When he saw the creature perched on the book, he took a step back in alarm. It had been so long that he'd forgotten how it looked—a tiny, cream coloured thing, wrinkled and strange. 

“Well?” it demanded, glaring at him with its yellow eyes. “What do you want?”

Harry cleared his throat. He hadn't really had time to rehearse what he'd say, and it had been so long since his words had any consequence.

“I would like to renegotiate,” he said, as evenly as he could manage. 

The creature looked unimpressed. “You're telling me that you're unhappy with the terms of our agreement? I gave you everything you asked for!” It waved vaguely, a pissed-off scowl growing on its face. “I gave you an entire kingdom!”

Harry schooled his features. “That was what I asked for, yes, but it's been a thousand years now. I've grown tired of having only myself for company, I would like to visit the world in the glass—”

The creature laughed, then studied him. “I see. It's finally sunk in, has it?”

Harry frowned.

The spirit stood on its thin, knobbly legs and pointed a finger in his face. “You humans are all so fickle, you have no grasp of what's best for you. You summoned me to beg for me to give you wealth and stature and to allow you to care for others, with no regard for the consequences of your wish. I gave you what you wanted—a castle and a crown and empty-headed citizens for you to pretend you cared about, and I gave you mirrors to the world you had me take you from, so you could watch it as it moved on without you. Such was the nature of your punishment.”

Harry’s mind reeled. This whole time, he thought he'd been trapped in a hell of his own making, and yet—it had been the spirit who had done this, warped his desires into something cruel. 

The creature seemed to notice the dark cloud that had passed over Harry's face. It simply laughed again, a horrible, knowing sound. 

“I suppose you want me to give you back to the world you left, is that it? To unmake the gift I gave you, free of consequence?”

Harry didn't trust himself to speak, he knew he couldn't afford to anger the creature any further. He simply pursed his lips and nodded.

The spirit floated into the air, circling Harry as he studied him with a calculating gaze. “It's that young man you've been obsessed with, isn't it? Oh, don't look so surprised, I  _ have  _ been keeping tabs on you, the peasant I crafted into a hollow king. I've watched as you let your kingdom fall into disrepair, spending far too much time staring into that glass and ignoring your duties. All for a man who you can't even touch, cannot hear or speak to.” 

The creature finished its careful circle around Harry's head and settled back onto the book with a gleam in its eye. 

Harry made to speak, but suddenly found he couldn't. He rose a hand to his throat, alarmed. He tried to shout, to curse, but all that came out was a choked noise. 

The creature lifted a hand, a wry smile on its little face. “Wish granted,” it said, then snapped its fingers. 

And everything went white. 

Then, Harry was in a room. There was a bookcase against the wall, a pleasantly warm breeze coming in from the window that made the floral patterned curtains billow, and a fireplace with two armchairs in front. Harry looked around in bewilderment. It took him several long seconds to recognise the room he’d been staring at for weeks; it was so different, to be within it. 

Harry looked down at himself, and almost jolted at what he saw. He was wearing a cream-coloured outfit consisting of soft pants, a delicate shirt, and an embroidered waistcoat. He recognised the cut of the clothing from his time studying his stranger’s clothes. Harry raised a curious hand to his hair, then remembered he'd already removed his crown. 

Harry took a shuddering breath in, trying to ground himself. 

He turned, trying to find–there! On the wall behind him, innocent and gleaming, sat a mirror. He walked over to it and peered within, but he found nothing except his own green eyes. He turned away and studied the room again, at once familiar from this angle.

He was here. He was truly here, in the glass, in the room. He was free from his Palace and his people and–

The door opened. The man walked in. 

He didn't seem to notice Harry at first, busy reading a letter as he walked towards his desk. Then, he paused. He looked up. 

If Harry had thought his eyes were blue before, it was nothing compared to actually seeing them in front of him. In fact, everything about his stranger was more intense in person. The softness of his hair, the way he carried himself, the way he  _ breathed,  _ Harry was captivated by every small detail of him. 

“Oh,” the stranger said, licking his lips nervously and glancing at the door. “Hello?”

Harry was distracted for a moment at the sound of his voice, the raspiness of it, the texture, he couldn't have  _ imagined it– _

And then he realised the man was waiting for a response, eyebrows raised delicately. 

Harry opened his mouth to speak, then it all came crashing down. His voice was still gone, no sound came out at all. 

He must have looked very panicked, because the boy took pity on him. “Are you…” he started, then walked the rest of the way over to his desk and opened a small book. “Are you here to interview?”

Harry nodded, latching on to the excuse. 

The man frowned a little. “That’s funny, I thought I’d seen all the applicants. And Geraldine didn’t mention sending anyone in.”

Harry looked around the room as if something might jump out and save him from his utter inability to explain himself. 

“I'm sorry, that was so rude of me!” the stranger said, shaking himself off and offering Harry his hand. “It's a pleasure to meet you, I'm Louis Tomlinson. I'm sure you knew that, since you’re here.”

_ Louis, his name is Louis.  _ It was the answer to a burning question he'd had for so long yet offered so freely, like it was nothing special. 

Harry looked between the angelic smile on his face and his proffered palm. He lifted his own carefully and grasped his stranger’s hand—not a stranger anymore, now Harry knew his name. It was warm and solid beneath his fingers, and Harry had to stop himself from whining when he pulled it back. 

It was becoming incredibly clear that he’d completely forgotten how to behave like a person at some point. 

But… That wasn't entirely true. He'd always been friendly to his people, polite and loving where he could. He could be the same here.

Except for one small problem. 

Harry smiled his best smile at Louis and stepped around him to his desk. He grasped a piece of parchment and something he recognised as a modified quil. A few seconds of frantic scribbling, then he turned back to Louis with a hopeful expression. 

Louis was watching him with his hands folded across his chest and an amused twist to his lips. He looked between Harry and the parchment, then stepped closer to read it. 

“ _ My name is Harry. Nice to meet you. _ ” This time when Louis smiled, it seemed to light up the whole room. Harry had a flash of the sight he'd seen in the glass not a few hours ago, how defeated this very same man had looked. He was glad that he could change that, at least for a moment. 

“Well, Harry, do you have any previous experience as an assistant?” Louis asked. 

Harry shook his head with a frown. 

“Typing? Writing letters? Organising a calendar? Answering the telephone?”

Harry was happy to realise he recognised some of those things. So, Louis was in need of a page of his own. Harry was certain that he was more than qualified, after running an entire kingdom for a millennia. So he nodded. 

Louis looked doubtful for a moment, scratching at his scruff. “Well, answering the phone isn't really an option for you I would guess, but no one really calls me anyway… I'll take you on for a week and see how it goes, how about that? I try to keep myself organised, but recently I've been… A little caught up.”

Harry tilted his head to the side. Louis smiled sadly. 

“Don't trouble yourself with that, Harry. Now,” he clapped his hands. “Let's get you started!”

The afternoon that followed was an absolute mess. Louis was patient and kind as he explained how he organised his appointments—he was the head of his household, Harry came to understand, as well as being a writer like he’d guessed. He had various commitments for monthly short stories in something called a  _ magazine _ as well as his latest novel to find the time to work on. 

“I don't suppose you've read any of my work, Harold?” Louis asked at one point, suddenly shy. Harry might have corrected him about the name, but he was far too preoccupied feeling sad that he had to tell Louis no, he hadn't. He felt irrationally disappointed in himself as he shook his head, like he could have tried harder to read Louis’ own novels in front of him in the one afternoon he'd been here. 

But Louis didn't looked upset. He just pursed his lips on a smile and turned back to the papers on the desk. “No need to worry yourself about it, pet, they're hardly Shakespeare,” he chuckled. 

Harry nodded like he had any idea who Shakespeare was, insides a warm squirming mess. 

Once Louis had deemed Harry had been appropriately caught up, he seemed to realise how late it had gotten. 

“Oh!” he laughed, gesturing to the sunset out the window. “My apologies, I didn’t notice how long I’d been droning on, you must be so bored.”

Harry, who had been distracted appreciating the view from the window—the lovely colours of the sky were familiar, but the houses and streets and metallic carriages were not—looked back at Louis. He smiled, wide and genuine, and shook his head. 

Even though Harry had been concentrating on memorising all of Louis’ instructions, he had still had more fun this afternoon than he could remember having since the last grand ball he hosted. 

Harry’s balls were always fun, no matter who was in attendance. 

Louis fixed his fringe with a nervous hand. Harry couldn’t help but track the movement, how organic it seemed. “You’d best be getting home, then, love. Unless…” Louis licked his lips. “You’d like to join us for dinner?”

Harry frowned.  _ Us?  _

Louis rushed to explain. “I eat with my housekeeper and my cook, they’re lovely, I’m sure you’ll like them. But if you have plans then I understand, please don’t feel obligated. In fact, it was probably improper of me to even ask–”

Louis’ rambling cut off when Harry placed a gentle hand on his arm. He looked down at Harry’s hand as if in shock, and Harry’s fingers twitched against the material of his shirt. 

When Louis looked back up at him, Harry simply nodded with a smile. 

And that was how he found himself dining with the object of his months-long obsession, mute and banished from the world he’d known for longer than anyone at the table could fathom, yet happy to be included all the same. 

Louis’ Cook and Housekeeper were indeed lovely; a married couple well into their sixties. Both women were of good spirits and kind temperament, and Harry—despite still trying to work around his newfound inability to speak—enjoyed conversing with them. He was glad to see the church had apparently changed its stance on marriage since he'd been away. Harry's delight only grew when Louis introduced him rather brashly as his new personal assistant, despite the fact that earlier he’d been insistent Harry was only being taken on on a trial basis. Louis’ cook—Lily—beamed. 

“It’s about time you found somebody! I told you you were only scaring people away with that advertisement you wrote, dear,” she tutted, pouring everybody some water. 

Louis puffed out his chest. “It was important I only get applicants who–”

She waved him off impatiently. “Yes, yes, Master Louis, we’ve heard it all before. What matters now is this lovely young fellow.” Harry startled; he’d been distracted squinting at a strange device on the wall with small moving arms and a round, numbered face. 

Geraldine, Louis’ housekeeper, looked between him and the device. “Somewhere to be, dear? Oh, Louis, you  _ did  _ ask him if he had plans for dinner before you herded him down here, didn’t you?” 

Louis poked his tongue out at her childishly, and Harry giggled at the sight. It was so strange, to giggle without making any noise. He surprised himself and everyone at the table with the action—a quick hand to his mouth, shoulders bouncing up and down—and he ducked his head in response. 

Louis plowed on ahead. “Well, for your information, I  _ did _ ask Harold very nicely, and he said yes. So if he has intentions of darting out of here before desert it's your own fault.”

Harry looked up in panic, already shaking his head, when he saw the mirth shining in Geraldine's eyes and relaxed. 

“Hush, you, and eat your supper,” Lily tutted at Louis. “You need the strength.”

Dinner passed rather smoothly after that. Harry was mostly distracted by the tastes of the food; his chefs at the palace didn't provide much variety in their dishes, and the unique flavours and seasoning of the meal were intense in comparison.

Once dinner had ended, Harry became aware that he was expected to take his leave. 

He gulped as he stood and nodded his thanks to Lily and Geraldine. He certainly hadn't thought this far ahead. If he listened hard enough, he swore he could hear the faint sounds of the spirit laughing at him mockingly. 

_ You got what you wanted _ , it jeered from the corner of Harry's mind.  _ Now you're penniless and homeless. Congratulations. _

Harry looked over at Louis and noticed his concerned frown. “You've got a way to get home, right, love? I didn't inquire as to your address, I'm sure I could drive you–”

But Harry was already shaking his head. He'd imposed enough by staying for dinner, and he hadn't a clue where he'd have Louis take him anyway. 

So he offered his hand to shake instead, and walked from Louis’ home with his head held high. 

He made sure to keep track of where he was going as he walked away from the sizeable townhouse his new employer resided in. He followed the streets with a sharp eye, taking in every detail of this new world he'd found himself in. It wasn't so different to the world he'd came from, when he took the time to notice all the little details. He was glad to find humanity hadn't changed to an unrecognisable point, even if their candles shone unnaturally bright and their horseless carriages were far noisier. 

He found himself in a park after a while of wandering, and he sighed. He doubted he would find anywhere nicer to house him for the night, with no coin in his pocket. So he found a rather nice—if breezy—structure with a roof over it and not- _ too _ -uncomfortable benches and settled in for a long, cold night. 

If he squeezed his eyes shut enough, he could pretend he was just in his garden, too lazy to move from the grass as he slept under the stars. 

Needless to say, it was a far from pleasant experience. He dreamt and dreamt, vague visions of crumbling stone bricks and burning trees and the blank faces of those he’d left behind. 

When he awoke the next morning from a fitful night’s sleep, he resolved to prove himself an excellent assistant to Louis, if only so as to insure that he had some kind of income with which to purchase a room in the city. The pain in his back (and the pounding in his head) was an unwelcome companion.

He splashed himself with some water from a fountain and straightened his clothes. He hoped it wasn't too obvious he'd slept in them, but there wasn't much to be done about that. 

He waited until the sun was a little higher in the sky before he headed back to Louis’ house. The man hadn’t specified a point in the morning that he should arrive at—he'd given Harry a number, strangely.  _ ‘9 sharp’ _ . It was one of the many things Harry intended to understand about this new world he'd been… Well, he had asked to be here. 

The crick in his neck, the bags under his eyes, the rumbling of his stomach; he'd done this to himself. 

It was about time he admit that. 

He had to wait for several long moments after he knocked on Louis’ door. He looked around the street for a moment, taking in the buildings, the strange carriages parked out front. When it was pulled open, Harry was met with Geraldine’s stern face. 

It melted into a smile when she recognised him. 

“Oh! Harry, dear, you're quite early. Please, come inside. Louis’ a late riser, I'm certain he forgot to mention that, so he won’t be up for at least another hour, I'm afraid.”

Harry did his best to look apologetic as he followed her into the house.

“Would you like some tea, my dear?” Geraldine asked. 

Harry waited for her to glance back at him before he nodded politely.

She paused at the door to Louis’ study and patted his cheek fondly. “Its excellent to see you here, ready to get started. I'm sure you'll prove to be a wonderful assistant. The master is…” she trailed off, looking troubled. “He's going through a tough time, at the moment, what with his mother being so ill. It's a great relief to all of us that he's found someone to lighten the load.”

Harry’s eyebrows pinched. Louis hadn't mentioned anything of the sort, but he supposed that wasn't really the kind of thing you told someone upon first meeting. Still, it saddened Harry to his core that the woman he remembered seeing through the glass—so full of life, so loving—had fallen ill. 

He hadn't had to deal with grief in a very long time. In his kingdom, it was only the animals who had died. He'd mourned his favourite pets, of course, but he'd never… he’d never gotten to see his mother pass, or the rest of his family. He'd known it had to have happened, but. It wasn't quite the same. 

Geraldine left him after that, ushering him into the study with a promise of tea once the kettle had boiled. Harry took the time to familiarise himself with Louis’ desk and write himself a list of tasks that needed doing—some of which he remembered Louis mentioning, others were a product of his observations thus far. He organised Louis’ appointment book and the filing system he used for all his legal and financial documents, sipping as he went on the lovely tea Lily had brought in.

“Make sure Master Louis eats some breakfast, won't you?” she’d said, gesturing to some pastries she's set out on the tray. “The poor boy works far too hard.”

Harry had smiled and crossed his heart, and she'd left with a chuckle. 

It was a little while later when the man himself entered the study, looking sleep-rumpled as he rubbed at his eyes. He was as sharply dressed as always, but there was something unique about how he looked in the soft morning light that almost took Harry’s breath away. 

If he'd thrown away a kingdom for a man, at least he'd chosen one so beautiful. 

Louis seemed to realise, then, that someone else was in the room. Harry raised the book he was reading in greeting, then scrambled to cover the title with a guilty look. 

Louis laughed softly, a lovely sound that broke up the silence in the room. 

“Good morning, Harry,” he said, the words flowing like honey from his lips. He walked over to the tray of tea and pastries sitting on a table next to Harry, pouring himself a cup. Harry watched, oddly enraptured, as Louis added a splash of milk to his tea. 

Louis looked up at him from beneath his eyelashes as he took a long sip. “That's my first novel you're holding, so don't judge it too harshly.”

Harry frowned. He looked down at the novel—he was only a few chapters in, but it was already quite lovely—and stroked the front cover. The story was about a little girl caught up in a magical world, making friends with monsters and seeing the most wonderful sights and being braver than Harry could ever hope to be. It was melodic and whimsical and already so charming. He looked up at Louis with a small pout, holding the book to his chest as if to protect it from Louis’ self-deprecation. 

The man made an odd expression at that, a delightful curling of the lips like he was trying very hard to swallow a smile. 

“Well, if you insist,” Louis said. “Now, what have we got going on today?”

The way he said that, sharp and tart like a challenge he expected Harry to fail, reminded Harry of his time in the gardens at the palace, picking red roses with little care for how their thorns made his fingers bleed. 

Harry ignored his irrational offense and stood. He supposed Louis had no proof as of yet that Harry was at all capable, so he could hardly be blamed.

Still. It had been an awfully long time since anyone had dared challenge Harry. It was that thought in particular that drove him to present the detailed itinerary he'd prepared for Louis with an exaggerated bow. 

When Louis laughed, any resentment Harry might have felt a moment ago vanished like mist on a warm morning. Harry smiled at Louis as he rose, still waiting for the man to accept his offering. 

Louis took the paper with one hand and poked Harry in the stomach with the other, ignoring his wince. “Cheeky,” Louis tutted, sounding much too delighted. 

When he looked down at the list, however, his expression fell. “Oh,” he said, suddenly forlorn. “That's today, is it?”

Harry peered over his shoulder at the list, wondering which item in particular had caused such a reaction. Louis seemed to lean back into him ever so slightly, then he stepped away. “Um, the meeting with the realtor I have at 2pm. I'd quite forgotten.”

Harry tried to puzzle through the odd tone of his voice, but Louis had shaken himself off before Harry could come to any conclusions. “I'd best get started on my writing for the magazine, then. If you wouldn't mind finding Geraldine and telling her I sent you, that would be lovely. You'll be spending some time with her this morning, learning a few parts of her job. She's going to be quite busy soon, so you'll have to take on the extra duties that she can't handle alone.”

Harry tilted his head to the side. He was missing something, he knew. Why would Geraldine be busier in the coming weeks? 

Louis looked up from his typewriter—as Harry had learned the device was called—and sighed. “I suppose I should tell you that, yes,” he answered. “My mother is…unwell. She’s being placed in permanent care later this week, and my sisters will be coming to live here with me.”

Harry truly had no idea what to do with that. Louis’ rock-hard expression suggested he would resist being comforted, yet he was also clearly in distress and Harry wanted desperately to help somehow. In the end, all he did was nod. And do as he was asked. 

But not before he’d set the plate of pastries—still untouched—in front of Louis with a stern look.

 

🜾🜾🜾

 

Harry's first week of being Louis’ assistant came with many ups and downs. He learned quite a bit, like how to read clocks and how to use the typewriter and what chocolate tasted like and what it felt like to ride in a  _ car— _ a quite exhilarating feeling, as it turned out. He was sure Geraldine was suspicious at how in awe of it he was. He also learned exactly how Louis liked his tea, how he wrote as if consumed by a fever but edited with a cool-eyed precision, the way he spoke, the way he gestured with his hands when he was enthused, the way his eyes grew distant when he thought about his mother. 

Harry had been finding slightly more comfortable places to sleep in nooks and crannies around the city, so purchasing a room was not what he used his first week’s payment on. Instead, he spent the money on two new outfits, so Lily could stop asking him if he owned anything else in a way that, whilst was joking at first, had become quite worried.

Currently, he was with Geraldine, making arrangements for the four new residents Louis’ house was soon to have. As truly sad as the situation might have been, Harry was almost giddy with excitement. He remembered the girls from his time watching Louis through the glass, how young and full of life they were. He was sure their presence would cheer Louis up, and it  _ had _ been a thousand years since he'd got to play with children. 

He'd always wanted children, yet he'd been denied them for most of his time alive. He supposed that was yet another way his wish had been turned into a curse.

“He seems to be in good spirits, don’t you think, Harry?” Geraldine asked, almost out of the blue. Harry looked up from his work—budgeting the expenses that the girls would require, which Louis would only able to afford if he managed to secure a decent sum in the upcoming auction of his family home. The meeting with the realtor he’d been dreading had apparently gone well enough that Louis had given Harry a tight hug after he’d returned, but given the broader context of the man’s circumstance, he couldn’t rightly say that Louis was in  _ good spirits.  _

Geraldine seemed to catch his judgement. Everyone in Louis’ house had a remarkable talent for understanding him with very little need for him to waste time writing out his thoughts on the set of lovely scented cards Louis had gifted him on his third day at work. The times he had had to rely upon them to hold a conversation were frustrating for all involved. 

She sighed softly and relaxed into her chair. She wasn’t usually so casual in his presence, but it had been a long day. Dinner would be starting soon, and then it was off to bed, and then tomorrow the girls would arrive. He could understand the slip-up in her composure. 

“I think you know what I mean, Harry. He’s been mostly coping. He hasn’t locked himself in that damned study for days upon end, he hasn’t been out a single night this week drinking himself into an early grave, and he’s been eating a solid three meals a day. I think we’ve got you to thank for that.” 

Harry shook his head sternly. If there was anyone responsible for Louis’ remarkable bravery in the face of adversity, then it certainly wasn’t him. In fact, it wasn’t anyone but the man himself. Perhaps in the time before Harry had started looking in on him, he’d been less functional. Perhaps not. It wasn’t really any of his business.

Geraldine watched him shrewdly. “Do you have a special someone, Harry? A lass or lad to go home to?”

Harry looked up at her with wide eyes, reeling a little from the unexpected change in conversation. Had he been too obvious? 

He shook his head in response to her question. She pursed her lips and hummed, and Harry spent a moment studying her face for any insight into her thoughts. 

When he could find none, he turned back to his work, and Geraldine didn’t break the silence again until they were called to dinner. 

Dining with Louis and his staff had become a habit in the past week. He was immensely grateful for it; he was sure he wouldn't eat otherwise. 

Tonight’s dinner had a rather strange feeling to it. There was a tingle to the air that Harry couldn’t name, and no one said anything of any consequence—especially not Harry. He’d thought he’d grow used to being silenced, but a week hadn’t dulled the sting any. He told himself again and again that he was happy to be here, happier here than he would be in his lovely castle with his lovely bed and his loving people. His…  _ empty  _ castle,  _ empty  _ bed and  _ empty  _ people. 

He had hope that one day he would wake up and it wouldn’t bother him, the fact that Louis would never know what his voice sounded like. 

That night, after dinner, Louis invited him to stay a while in his study, enjoy a glass of port in front of the fire. Harry settled in contently, sipping on the drink and watching the flames. Louis stood, after only a few moments, and made his way over to the device in the corner. Harry had tried to contain his curiosity about it in his time under Louis’ employment—it wouldn’t do to get distracted from his work, after all—but he sat bolt upright in the chair as Louis ran a hand over the small table it sat on. 

“What kind of music do you like, Harry?” Louis asked with a smile, sending a look over his shoulder that nearly sent Harry to his knees. He could never tell if Louis acted this way on purpose, if he was taunting Harry’s obvious (at least, to him) affections, or if he was just oblivious to the effect he had. Harry had to clear his throat before he could answer. 

Not that he could answer with his own words, of course. He just shrugged helplessly. He hadn’t a clue how music had changed while he’d been gone, and he doubted he could answer ‘lyre music that you can jig to’ without Louis thinking him a fool.

Louis rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “Well, you’re no help at all,” he muttered, crouching down and scanning the pile of square objects on the bottom shelf of the table. Harry was on the edge of his seat, drink long forgotten in his hand, as Louis selected one and drew it from the pile with care. 

“You’ve left me no choice but to guess, Harold,” he said, sending another dazzling smile over his shoulder. “And I’m a terrible loser, so do me a favour and don’t tell me if I’ve guessed wrong. But...something tells me you’ll like this one.” 

Louis pulled a disc from the object in his hand, setting it on the device with a revenant look on his face. “My mother bought this gramophone for me, did you know?” he said as he fiddled with the needle, placing it on the outer edge of the disc. “My eighteenth birthday, the year I left home, she gifted it to me. And I’m a writer, so I used to wish she’d said something poetic when she’d done it, like, ‘ _ you’ve always loved the sound of your words, so now you can listen to the sound of others’’,  _ but,” Louis paused. He turned to face Harry, a far-away shine to his eyes. “She just said, ‘ _ here you go, love’.  _ And it was much better than anything I’m ever going to write in any of my books.”

The thing is, Harry had read Louis’ books. In the stolen moments of inactivity he could find, sipping on tea at a quiet breakfast table or a few minutes here and there in the afternoon, he’d  _ read.  _ And Louis’ words were nothing short of miracles. 

Harry set his glass down on the table gently, and Louis jolted out of his daze a little at the sound. He watched Harry stand blankly, scanning his whole body as he moved towards him. Harry came to a stop in front of Louis, hunching down a little so they were the same height. He met Louis’ gaze and raised his hand up. Louis didn’t flinch (or breathe, or blink) when Harry pressed his fingers to Louis’ lips. It was a gentle touch, barely anything, but Harry’s fingers still tingled nonetheless. He pulled his hand away, then, and brought it up to his ear, then his temple. Louis’ brow was furrowed as he followed the movement, and Harry could almost hear the gears turning as he tried to understand. Finally, Harry brought his hand down to his chest, pressing his fingers—the same fingers that had just graced Louis’ lips—against his heart. He dared Louis with his gaze, dare him to understand him, to  _ hear  _ him. What he was trying to convey wasn’t at all something he could just stand there and scribble out on a card, it wouldn’t– _ he _ couldn’t–

Language was more than words. 

Louis’ eyes cleared, then, and he blinked rapidly. “Thank you, Harry,” he whispered. Harry closed his eyes, Louis’ words echoing around his head, thick with emotion. 

He opened them when he felt Louis shift, frowning as Louis stepped back and straightened his shirt. It was Louis, now, who cleared his throat with no intent to speak. He fiddled instead with the device, and then. 

Then, music filled the room.    
  
Harry took a step back in shock, eyes wide on the gramophone. The music was soft and grainy and nothing at all like listening to his court musicians, or the few centuries he’d devoted to learning every instrument he could, and he almost hated it for its falseness. But then he looked at Louis, and the wide smile on his face as he listened to the music, eyes closed, and he changed his mind. 

The song was lovely, full of new melodies, a lilting tempo, and soft singing. Harry used to love singing; he’d perform every year in the village’s Winter Solstice Festival, singing yuletide hymns and celebrating. Even if some of them had survived the test of time, he’d never be able to sing them to Louis. He glanced over his shoulder at the far wall, met his own gaze in the mirror that hung there. 

“So, was I right?” Louis asked, interrupting the flow of the music and the noise in Harry’s mind. Harry turned back to him with a smile, and Louis smiled back. 

He nodded. 

 

🜾🜾🜾

 

With the arrival of Louis’ sisters came a flurry of activity. The girls were wonderful, of course; full of life and personality and  _ possessions good god.  _ Harry was exhausted from moving them in, not only because of the physical exertion. No, it was Louis that truly did him in, with his blinding smile and his rolled up sleeves and the sweat he occasionally wiped from his forehead and the way he threw his head back and laughed whenever any of the young ones joked with him. 

Harry made it through the day by the skin of his teeth, and when it came to dinner time he was almost grateful of his muteness, if only so he was offered a short reprieve. 

The conversation flowed smoothly for the most part, though it was clear there was a shadow in the corner of the room in the shape of the Tomlinson’s mother. The girls had already been instructed that they weren’t allowed to visit her for another week lest her condition worsen after the stress of moving, and they were none too happy about it.

“So, Louis,” Felicite asked as the clanging of cutlery against plates began to die down. Harry had made a concerted effort to learn everyone’s names, and he’d even managed to tell the twins apart after a few unsuccessful (but thoroughly entertaining) attempts. “Are you ever going to tell us where you found your new assistant? He’s delightful.”

Harry blushed and stared down at his plate. 

“Oh, uh, well,” Louis stumbled, shifting in his seat. “He was a friend of a friend who needed employment, so I took him in to help with my work–”

“You let him read your writing before its  _ finished _ ?” Charlotte interrupted incredulously.

Harry looked up, interest piqued. Louis hadn’t, in fact, let him read unfinished work, something Harry had been a little put out about. He was an excellent editor. He assumed. Well, he probably would be. He’d never find out if Louis wouldn’t let him try. (He also filed away Louis’ lie about how he’d found Harry; that was a mystery for another, far less strenuous day).

Louis blinked in shock. “Well, no, but he helps with the other work I do maintaining the house and my finances.”

Charlotte and Felicite slumped back in their seats, no longer interested now Louis had brought up finance.

“Why doesn’t he talk, Louis?” asked Daisy. Harry’s eyebrows raised almost to his hairline. Children were much more direct than he remembered them being. 

Louis fish mouthed, looking not at all like he was prepared to answer such a question. 

“It’s very rude to talk about someone like they aren’t there, Miss Daisy,” chastised Geraldine. 

Daisy’s face crumbled. She turned to Harry with wide, pleading eyes. “I’m sorry, Mister Harry.” 

Harry’s lips twitched, then a smile bloomed across his face. He had wanted to remain sincere in the face of her apology, but he was far too charmed to pretend to be anything but. 

He glanced across the table at Louis, who was watching him with a nervous expression. When he caught the twinkle in Harry’s eye, he seemed to relax a little. 

Harry pulled out a card from his back pocket, then the fountain pen he kept in his vest pocket. He quickly scribbled out a note, then passed it to Daisy with a flourish. 

She giggled and accepted it, mouth moving as she read the words to herself.

_ Dear Miss Daisy,  _ it said,  _ I am unable to talk because of an accident, but I can understand you perfectly. I accept your apology, and I hope we can be great friends. -Harry. _

Daisy looked up at him once she’d finished and grinned. 

“What did he tell you, Daisy?” Phoebe demanded, making to snatch the card. Daisy pulled it against her chest protectively, face screwed up in anger. 

Harry tapped his fingers against the table, looking between a now-guilt-stricken Daisy and Phoebe. Daisy deflated, then handed the note to her sister. 

Soon, the two were engaged in a hushed conversation about whether or not Harry could be allowed to be part of their best friend pact. Louis caught Harry’s gaze while chatting with Lily and Charlotte, smiling for a moment before looking away. 

Harry sighed into his wine. 

 

🜾🜾🜾

 

It only took a week or so for a new normal to establish itself in Louis’ household. Harry arrived for breakfast every morning, helped wrangle the little ones into eating and getting ready, then saw Louis off as he drove them to school. 

Harry was glad that all of the girls were getting a decent education, and he quite enjoyed hearing about Felicite's passion for history and Charlotte’s interest in fashion. Lottie would be graduating soon, and she was already so full of ideas about the kind of job she wanted. Harry admired her spirit; all of the girls’, really. Charlotte didn’t need to seek employment per se; Louis’ finances were stable enough, with the house he lived in (an inheritance, Harry had gathered), and Louis made enough with his writing to keep on the servants that had come with it (except Lily and Geraldine were more like aunts than servants). 

But...there were times when Harry became aware that a great deal of things weren’t being talked about, and it wasn’t limited to Louis’ mother—though the afternoon after Louis had taken his sisters to visit her was the quietest the house had been since they’d moved in. The longer Harry spent here, this world he’d begged to be sent back to, the more he realised it wasn’t nearly as perfect as it seemed. 

There was a scar in this world, a wound as deep as it was fresh. He saw echoes of it every day. The people in this world were  _ real  _ and diverse and unique and wonderful, but they also seemed shallow at times, awful and hateful and small. 

Phoebe came home crying, one day, because of the things one of the girls in her class had said to her. 

Harry did his best to comfort her, Geraldine and Louis by his side while Lily made her her favourite biscuits. But try as they might, Phoebe couldn’t be convinced to repeat what had been said. 

From the look on Louis’ face, it seemed like he knew without being told. He was extra gentle with her that night, brushing her hair for her as she prepared for bed and singing her a sweet lullaby. He even, by request, read aloud a chapter of his second novel to her—the sequel to little Doris’ adventures with magic—and Harry couldn’t peel himself away from the doorway as Louis’ melodic voice read his own words out to his sister, gentle as a kiss to the forehead. 

As curious as Harry was, he doubted the truth would set him free. 

Even with the weight of things unspoken dragging everyone in the house down, there were still shining moments of happiness and joy; Phoebe’s first time baking her favourite biscuits, Lily’s completion of a beautiful needlework piece that Felicite insisted be hung in her room, or even the day Louis came home, a wide grin on his face and an expensive bottle of wine in his hand. 

“I’ve just heard from the realtor,” he’d said, talking as if a great strain had been released from his shoulders, “and he’s managed to secure a sizeable sum for the estate. Everyone gets a raise!”

Harry had enjoyed a glass of the wine, smiled along with Lily and Geraldine, allowed himself to feel the bubbling of merriment through his veins. 

Louis managed to snag him alone, after their impromptu celebration in the dining room. He pulled Harry into the study, and wasted no time before coming out with it;

“I’d like for you to move in.”

Harry was taken aback, of course. He’d assumed that perhaps it wasn’t normal for this century’s pages to live with their sires, and he’d made reasonable progress towards securing lodgement of his own.   
  
But the way Louis’ eyes shone in the soft electric light, the hope that was painted into every inch of his skin, well…

Harry was hardly going to refuse. He tilted his head to the side sort of coyly, waiting for Louis to explain himself better. 

Louis puffed his chest out, like he knew how upfront he was being, how ridiculous he sounded, and he’d already signed away his fate so he might as well commit. It was one habit amongst many that Harry admired him for. 

“You’re so wonderful with the girls, and I’m sure that travelling from wherever you live is exhausting, given how early you’re always here and how late you stay. With this upcoming raise, I think it’s reasonable that you might want to commit yourself to this job, and I would be remiss if I didn’t suggest a way to make it easier for you.”

Harry listened to Louis, truly listened to him, and he was caught for a moment in what he heard. Because he’d proven himself rather rusty at understanding interpersonal relations, and he was admittedly quite biased, so if he’d managed to read between the lines of Louis argument and come to the conclusion that it wasn’t really about the work at all, and Louis just wanted him to move in for  _ himself _ , then surely that had been a misunderstanding.

Nevertheless, he accepted Louis’ offer. Of course he did. 

Louis had Geraldine set him up with a spare room, and even though it was small and ill-furnished it still smelt the same as the rest of Louis’ house, and it was warm and safe. It felt like it could be a home, one day. 

 

🜾🜾🜾   


 

Harry was in the kitchen with Lily making tarts when Louis found him. Harry paused mid-giggle—Lily was ruthlessly teasing him for his less than stellar kneading technique—looking up to see Louis frozen in the doorway, a flush to his cheeks.  
  
Harry raised his eyebrows and waved with one of his dough-sticky hands. 

Louis adjusted his vest nervously, then smiled. 

“Sorry to interrupt the important baking, Lily dear. Do you mind if I steal Harry?”

Lily shook her head fondly, already taking over Harry’s misshapen lump. She bumped Harry away from the bench towards Louis with a grin.    
  
“You needn’t ask, Master Louis; he’s yours, after all,” she said. 

Harry turned towards the sink so he might clean his hands (and also avoid the besotted expression he most definitely had after hearing someone call him  _ Louis’ _ ). 

Louis spluttered a little, replying, “I don’t own the lad, Lily, he’s not–”

Harry dried his hands off quickly and ushered Louis out of the room before he could get himself too caught in his own words. 

Louis sent him a grateful look, peeking around his shoulder to wave goodbye to Lily before heading down the hallway towards his study.

“I just needed your help with something, actually,” he said, slowing enough for Harry to fall in step next to him. “I’m a little stuck with the latest story for the paper, and it’s due tomorrow afternoon, and I’ve got to pick the girls up from school in a few hours.”

Harry nodded along, insides giddy at the prospect of Louis letting him read something  _ unfinished.  _

Once they reached Louis’ study, Louis gestured for Harry to sit at his desk. The pages Louis had already typed were in front of him in a neat stack. He wasted no time picking the first one up.  
  
“Um, I’ll just,” Louis said, stepping away. Harry turned to him with pursed lips and a frown. He pointed at the desk where Louis was leaning. 

“But Harry!” Louis whined, catching his meaning. “I hate this part, I’d much rather–”

Harry crossed his arms.

Louis sighed, then leaned back against the desk. “Alright, you win,” he sassed, hooking one ankle over the other. “Just be gentle with me, yeah?”

Harry coughed, swallowing down some rather indelicate images Louis’ words had provoked. He nodded briskly, then started reading.

There was definitely a difference between Louis’ edited and unedited works. This story was full of parts where Louis interrupted the narrative to leave little notes for himself, small reminders or questions to be answered later. It was like reading something straight from Louis’ brain; raw, unpolished. Wonderful. 

Louis’ short stories for the magazine followed a young lady detective as she solved all manner of mysteries, though they were published under a pseudonym for reasons Harry couldn’t parse. This week’s adventure was set in a nunnery; the Lady Diana had gone undercover to expose a secret ring of Sacred Relic smugglers. It was quite gripping, and before he knew it he’d come to the end of the pages and the story was cut off. He almost whined, flipping the page over in his hand like there would be more hidden on the back.    
  
Louis laughed softly, leaning down. “That’s it, I’m afraid. I just can’t figure out how the Mother Superior escaped capture in the belltower...”

Harry frowned. The answer to that had seemed obvious, to him. He fed the paper back into the typewriter, then continued the story on a new line. 

Louis shifted so he was behind him, watching over Harry’s shoulder as he typed. “Harry, that’s genius!” he enthused. He gripped Harry’s shoulder in his excitement, and Harry’s fingers paused over the keys for just a moment before he continued. He was probably overstepping his bounds, writing Louis’ ending for him, and there was undoubtedly a shift in tone. But Louis seemed nothing short of amazed, making small noises and offering suggestions as Harry went. Soon enough, the story had ended, and Harry took his hands off the typewriter. 

He looked up at Louis for approval, then froze. He hadn’t noticed how close he’d gotten, their faces barely inches apart. Louis turned his head then as well, meeting Harry’s wide-eyed gaze. 

“Oh,” he breathed. Then, he leaned back. He cleared his throat and ran a hand through his coiffed hair. 

Harry slumped back in his chair, looked back at the pages. He fetched a pen off the desk, scribbling on the margin,  _ you don’t have to use it. _

Louis scoffed. “Of course I do, Harry, it’s brilliant. I don’t know why I didn’t ask you to help sooner.”

Harry grinned up at Louis. 

Louis looked panicked for a moment, then clapped him on the shoulder. “You’re a wonderful assistant!” he squeaked out, hastily gathering the pages into a folder. 

Harry’s grin faded a little as Louis organised his desk to leave. “I might run a few errands in town before I pick up the girls, but thanks again for your help.”

Then, with a few short footsteps and the  _ snick  _ of the door handle, Louis was gone. 

Harry slumped back in the chair. He looked over to the mirror on the far wall. He gazed at it from afar for a few melancholy seconds, then stood to approach it. 

He looked into it, tried to look  _ through  _ it. But there wasn’t anything there but his own face, a small streak of flour across his cheek. 

 

🜾🜾🜾   


 

That night, Harry met Louis’ friends for the first time. He’d heard about them from Louis, of course; a group of three men he’d met at school who he’d bonded with. Harry gathered they used to meet and go out on the town quite often, before… Well. Before Louis’ mother got sick, it seemed. 

They came rushing into the home like a pack of wolves; loud, excitable things, greeting Lily, Geraldine, and the girls like they were family themselves.  
  
The girls seemed to love them, Harry noted without a hint of jealousy. Not a hint. 

They turned to Louis after hugs had been distributed to everyone else in the foyer. They seemed to all glare at each other for a second, then Louis opened his arms and the boys leaped towards him, burying him in a noisy, squirming hug. 

“Alright, alright, that’s enough, lads!” Louis laughed, pushing them away. “You’re gonna suffocate me.”

Then, finally, he turned to Harry, who’d been patiently waiting through the whole messy thing to be introduced.    
  
“Harry, I’m so sorry!” Louis gasped. “This is Niall Horan, Liam Payne and Zayn Malik.” He turned back to the boys with a look of pride on his face. “Lads, this is Harry. He’s my assistant.”

Harry offered his hand to shake, a polite smile on his face. The three men exchanged a look, and then not a moment later he found himself enveloped in a hug. He stumbled back a little, shooting Louis a frantic look, much to the man’s amusement. 

“Lovely to meet you,” Liam Payne said, right into his ear. 

“We’ve heard great things,” Zayn Malik added, patting his back. 

“Don’t know why he’s been keeping you from us!” Niall Horan shouted.  

Harry relaxed a little into the hug, squeezing back whichever parts of the boys were in his grip. 

Then, the hug was over, and the frenzy had died down a little. In fact, everyone managed to have a lovely dinner together without any howling or peeing on the carpet. 

Harry was most impressed. 

He watched Louis interact with his friends as he ate his soup, noting every word and gesture. They seemed very close, and the jokes flowed freely. He even learned a few embarrassing facts about Louis’ time at university, much to the man’s dismay. 

“That never happened, Harry,” Louis insisted, after Liam had told a frankly horrifying story about the time Louis had almost burned down the Dean’s office. 

“It did! It did!” Daisy yelled from down the table, waving with her spoon. “Mama was so angry at you for a whole week!”

“ _ Daisy!” _

Daisy crossed her little arms across her chest. 

“We mustn’t tell lies, Louis,” Phoebe added in her defense.    
  
Harry nodded and passed her some of his bread in solidarity. 

Louis mumbled darkly into his soup. 

Once dinner was finished and all the plates had been cleared away, Harry stood to start preparing the little ones for bed.  
  
“Oh, uh, Harry!” Niall said, catching his arm. Harry looked over to him in surprise, looking behind to see Louis, Zayn and Liam conversing at the table still. He’d imagined they’d like the evening to themselves to catch up, but he smiled at Niall politely nonetheless. 

“Are you coming with us tonight? To the bar?”

Harry frowned. He looked back at Louis once more, only to see he’d paused his conversation and was watching him with an odd expression. 

Harry simply lifted his shoulders in response to Niall’s question.

The man seemed charmingly saddened. “Nah, mate! Come on. It’ll be fun, we promise we’ll make you feel welcome. Isn’t that right?” He directed the last part over his shoulder with a pointed look. Liam and Zayn nodded obligingly, but Louis still seemed unsure. 

“You don’t have to come if you don’t want to, Harry,” he said, standing.  
  
The other men stood with him, saying their goodbyes to Geraldine and Lily. 

Harry looked down at his feet. He honestly couldn’t tell if Louis was being gentle with him because he was afraid Harry didn’t want to spend time with his friends, or if he just didn’t want him there but couldn’t say as much for fear of sounding rude. 

Harry decided to throw caution to the wind. At the very least, he wanted to find out how taphouses and merriment had changed since he was last part of this world; he hadn’t had much opportunity to explore around the city at night. 

So he looked back at Niall and nodded firmly. 

“Good man!” Niall laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. “You won’t regret it!”

It only took about thirty minutes of being in the smoky, noisy, crowded,  _ sticky  _ pub for Harry to, in fact, start regretting it. 

The place was packed full of people, and it was in a seedier part of town than Harry had been expecting Louis and his well-off friends to visit. There was a band on the stage playing the most awful, brassy music, full of nonsense sounds and loud drums. It was grating at his skull, and no amount of sickly sweet drinks seemed to dull the ache (and he’d had five already).  
  
Louis seemed to be enjoying himself, at least; he’d dragged Liam off to the dance floor the second they’d arrived, and Harry was left with Niall and Zayn’s rather unlistenable conversation about their birdwatching hobby as he watched the men dance merrily to the beat. Louis was an awful dancer by Harry’s standards, but one look at the rest of the pub showed that expectations for dancing had clearly changed. 

The more Harry thought about it, however, the more the scene started to make sense to him. 

He was thinking about this place the wrong way. The dances he’d attended for the last thousand years were stuffy, extravagant things, with a trained orchestra (that only knew three songs) and people in their finest clothes, robotically pretending to enjoy themselves. If he thought back, really thought back, to when he was a young boy himself, this kind of thing was exactly what he’d done. Peasants had a different definition of dancing, of fun, of music; he remembered it being wonderful, then, the flowing beer and the fast beats and the swirling of bodies. 

Perhaps Harry just needed to relax a little into who he used to be. 

Louis and Liam stumbled back up to the small table, laughing and clinging to each other. “Come on, lads, the party’s over there!” Liam laughed, stealing the drink Zayn was nursing and gulping it down. Zayn pouted at him until he noticed and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek in apology. 

Harry smiled at the interaction. It always warmed his heart, how some things had changed. 

This pub especially seemed rather… fluid, compared to what Harry had seen around town during the daylight. There were male-bodied people in dresses—rather sparkly dresses, with a face of makeup to match—and female-bodied people in suits, there were couples or groupings of every gender enjoying each other’s company.  
  
Yes. Harry definitely needed to relax. This place was somewhere he should enjoy. 

He made an effort to loosen his shoulders, then, and let out the breath he’d been holding. Louis watched him with a keen eye, pressing up against him at the table and leaning up on his tiptoes to talk into his ear.  
  
“Are you having fun?”

Harry snorted without meaning to, then tried his very best to nod sincerely at Louis. Louis squinted in response, hands on his hips like a stern grandmother. 

“No! Not good enough. Here, come on,” Louis yelled over the music, gripping Harry’s elbow and pulling him from his seat. Harry’s eyes bugged out of his head as he stumbled after Louis, only barely having enough time to put his drink safely back on the table and wave bemusedly to Niall, Liam and Zayn. 

“Dance with me!” Louis exclaimed as he pulled Harry to a stop in the middle of the dance floor. The crushing movement of bodies surrounded them, and Harry fought down the urge for several long seconds to hunch, to make himself smaller. 

He was a king, and kings did not slouch. 

Louis seemed to deflate a little at Harry’s lack of response. He stepped up to him again, placing his hands on Harry’s shoulders to balance himself as he said, “You don’t have to, Harry. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable, being your employer and asking you to dance–”

Harry had had enough of  _ that.  _ He put his hands on Louis’ waist with determination (trying not to think about how well they seemed to fit there, how Louis’ breath hitched at his touch) and started swaying like he saw some other dancing couples doing. The music was a little too fast for it, but he didn’t particularly feel like making a fool of himself attempting one of the more  _ hoppy  _ dances he saw around. 

Then, Louis grinned. He cheered sloppily, swaying in time with Harry and looking so lovely even in the middle of this rather ugly mess of a pub. 

Perhaps Harry could afford to be a fool, just this once.

So he took a step back from Louis and he followed everyone else's lead, amateurishly shuffling his legs around in a poor facsimile of their seamless movements. 

Louis clapped a hand over his mouth, eyes pressed into slits from how hard he was grinning. Harry spun around in a little circle, then opened his arms wide, like he was saying,  _ tada! I'm having fun!  _

Louis giggled into his hand, then made a concerted effort to school his features into something more supportive. “Well done, Harry, you're an excellent dancer,” he said, taking one of Harry's suspended hands and settling it back on his own waist. “Maybe you could teach me a thing or two?”

Harry would like nothing more. 

They danced—clumsily, awkwardly, joyfully—for more than ten songs, each one bleeding into the last. They would take turns trying out increasingly terrible attempts at made-up dance moves, and Liam, Zayn and Niall soon joined in on the fun. Harry didn't think he'd laughed so hard in an entire millennium. 

Eventually, he and Louis collapsed onto the table they'd claimed, still wobbling and giggling. They calmed down after a drink of cold water provided by a stern-looking waitress, a comfortable silence taking its place on the spare seat at the table. 

“I love jazz,” Louis sighed into his drink, a faraway look on his face. “Father never approved, but mother always said it reminded her of me; cheeky, rebellious, you know.”

Harry listened intently—this was the first mention he'd heard of Louis’ father—but Louis shook himself off. 

“I had assumed you liked it too, considering. Do you come here often?”

_ Did Harry…  _ what? 

Harry looked around the room to distract himself from answering right away. He wasn’t at all sure what would lead Louis to the assumption that he’d been here before, and thinking back on the evening provided no insights. He simply shrugged helplessly. 

Louis squinted at him. 

“You know, when I told Lily and Geraldine that I wanted to advertise for an assistant in this den of inequities,” he gestured broadly to the pub, a wide grin softening his words, “they passed some judgement. Well, a lot of judgement. But I told them I didn't want an assistant who wasn't—who didn't…” Louis trailed off, a far away gaze taking over his face. “Who wasn't like me. A lot has changed for us queers, Harry, but there's still a whiles to go. I'm sure you would know.”

Harry but the inside of his cheek, turning over Louis’ words. His assumption that Harry was someone the church called a  _ sinner _ was correct—he'd never been able to see himself with a woman—but it seemed Louis had arrived at it rather falsely. 

Still, Harry couldn't correct him, not without revealing himself to have been an unwelcome intruder in Louis’ home that very first day. 

He was saved from having to respond by Niall, Liam and Zayn’s drink-happy bodies colliding with the table. 

“Lou! Harry!” Niall slurred. “My favorites.”

Harry’s eyebrows raised. 

Liam nodded in support to Niall’s greeting, patting him on the back with very little coordination. “I know we only met tonight, Harry, and you haven't even said a word to us all evening–” Liam hiccuped, “–but I can already tell you're a stand up lad.”

Louis looked disapproving at Liam’s lack of tact, but his frown morphed into a smile at the sight of Harry’s laugh. 

Harry nodded at Liam gratefully; it was almost a relief, actually, for someone to  _ joke  _ with him about his muteness, like it wasn't something awful but rather something inconvenient. Or, perhaps not even that; something that was beginning to feel more and more a part of him everyday. 

“Alright, boys, I think it's time to get you home,” Louis said, fondness colouring his voice. 

Zayn whined. “What's gotten into you, Lou? You used to be worse than all of us, now you’re cutting us off.”

Harry frowned at Zayn, feeling a surge of protectiveness after seeing the way his words made Louis’ shoulders drop a little. 

“I’m a caretaker now, me, gotta be responsible,” Louis shot back stiffly. 

Harry patted his hand, still glaring at Zayn. 

Zayn sighed and leaned against Liam. He seemed to have realised the offense he'd caused, at least. “I know, Lou. I'm sorry.”

Louis nodded, but his posture didn’t become any less tense. 

Harry stood from the table and made a show of pulling his jacket on (a dark green woolen coat with impeccable stitching that he’d picked up in a  _ store  _ instead of having a tailor fit it to him, so it sagged in places he wasn’t used to.) Liam, Zayn, Liam and Louis watched him for a moment, then made to follow his lead after he waved his hands at them questioningly. 

They took two taxis back to Louis’ house, and the overall mood was tired but merry. Louis entertained their driver with a conversation about music that Harry couldn’t parse a word of, Liam almost fell asleep against Harry’s shoulder, and Niall and Zayn were in the car behind them. 

When they reached the house, Louis gave everyone a stern talking to about not making any noise so as to not wake up his charming little sisters, and then they stumbled inside and off to the rooms Geraldine and Harry had prepared for them this afternoon. 

Louis waved his friends off with a smile and a whispered good night, but stopped Harry with a hand on his arm before he could turn away. 

“Did you have fun tonight?” Louis asked. Somehow, even in the low light of the house, his eyes were still so blue.  
  
Harry smiled and placed his hand atop Louis’. He wasn’t lying when he nodded, and he wasn’t thinking when he let his thumb drag across the smooth skin of Louis’ hand.

Louis gulped, then smiled. It was a little shaky around the edges, and Harry tilted his head to the side. 

Louis didn’t answer him. He just extracted his hand from Harry’s grip, waved farewell, and headed towards his bedroom. 

Harry watched him go with a sigh, then entered his room. After a night of dancing and laughing and being in the company of others, his room seemed much emptier than when he’d woken.


	2. And Love Is A Fruit

Harry was in the study. Soft music was playing from the gramophone, something slow with a gentle swing. Harry turned away from the window—there wasn’t anything outside—and looked around the room. From the corner of his eye, he thought he saw something move.

He turned his head towards it, and found his gaze focused squarely on the mirror hanging on the wall. He approached it, scanning the reflection for anything that seemed amiss. The room was still.

Then, Harry saw Louis in the mirror. He appeared just behind Harry’s left shoulder, and their eyes met in the reflection. Harry held his breath for a moment, then turned.

There was nothing behind him. Of course there wasn’t; he was alone in this room, and always had been. He glanced back over his shoulder at the mirror.

The reflection had changed. No, Harry thought. It hadn’t changed.

It had always looked like this.   
  
Louis was still there, just behind Harry’s shoulder, but he was standing in a room Harry had never imagined seeing him in.

It was Harry’s royal chambers. He could see the edge of his bed, his wonderful quilted sheets, the stone walls and floors and his chest and his tables and–

Louis.

Louis turned away from Harry and looked about the room with sad eyes. Harry frowned, frustrated that he couldn’t be there with him. He opened his mouth to say something, to tell him about his life, to _explain._ Nothing came out, of course.

Harry pressed a hand to the mirror, suddenly frantic. Louis ignored him, walking over to the window to look out at the courtyard. Atop his head, nestled in amongst his soft brown hair, was a crown of gold leaves.

 _Harry’s_ crown.

He looked beautiful in it, but there was something still gnawing at Harry, a feeling he couldn’t describe.

It wasn’t anything like jealousy, not like Harry might have expected once upon a time; he’d asked for that life and that power, and he had never thought of giving it to someone else.

He had often thought of sharing it, though.

He tried to yell, to get Louis’ attention, because the panic was rising in his chest and he couldn’t breath and Louis was lifting himself up onto the windowsill and his legs were dangling over the edge and the breeze was tousling his hair and Harry was beating his fists against the glass but it _wouldn’t break and–_

_Knock, knock._

Harry took in a breath. The mirror’s reflection was gone, replaced by a blur. His feet were unsteady, and he looked around again in confusion.

Why was he in the study?

_Knock, knock._

“Harry?”

Harry opened his eyes. He gripped the stiff sheets around him, trying to ground his swirling body. His room was softly lit with the first rays of dawn, and his mouth tasted foul from a night of drinking.

And there was someone at his door.

Harry pushed the sheets away from him, glad to be free of their weight, and stood on two unsteady feet. He rapped his knuckles against his bedside table twice, so his early-morning visitor would know he was coming, and opened his wardrobe to pull on a dressing gown. He ignored his reflection as he passed the mirror atop his chest of drawers; he’d had quite enough of those for one night.

When he pulled open the door, he was unsurprised to find Phoebe there, staring up at him with red-rimmed eyes. He’d recognised her voice, just before, and he was glad to see that he’d successfully told her apart from her twin by sound alone.

He crouched down in front of her with a frown, taking in her rumpled nightgown and her forlorn expression. He pulled her into a tight hug, patting her back a little and swallowing down his concern.

“I had a bad dream,” she whispered into his shoulder, clinging tightly to his back and confirming his suspicions.

He pulled back and stood carefully. He considered waking Louis for a moment, but he’d be up soon enough anyway and he would need his rest.

Today was a Saturday, and he always took his sisters to visit their mother on Saturdays.

So, Harry held out his hand for Phoebe to take, and he walked her downstairs and into the kitchen.

She sat at the little table in the centre, swinging her legs in a subdued kind of way. “Did you have a nice sleep, Harry?” she asked, resting her chin in her hands as she watched him pull a saucepan down and pour some milk into it.

Hot cocoa was, he’d learned, a night-time beverage, but since the sun hadn’t _fully_ risen and there was a distraught child in need of comfort, he was prepared to bend the rules a little.   
  
He smiled at her over his shoulder, touched that she cared enough to ask. But he shook his head, because there was no use lying to her.

Her mouth drooped a little.

Harry left the milk on the stove to heat up and walked over to one of the drawers against the wall. Lily kept all manner of ingredients in her kitchen, but she also kept many other things she needed throughout the day to run the small baking business she'd started a few years ago, after growing tired of the long hours each day between Louis’ meals. He pulled out two loose sheets of paper and a small cup of pencils—the good ones, the ones that Lily only let the children use when they promised to be gentle with them. He carried them over to the table and set down a piece of paper in front of Phoebe. He took a seat across from her, placing the cup in between them.

She looked confused for a second, so Harry took a blue pencil from the cup and held it to his temple. He closed his eyes for a moment, then pretended to snore. He tried to control his smile as Phoebe started giggling, pulling the pencil away and placing it on his paper.

He looked between her and the pencils, already drawing a line on his page.

Phoebe frowned, her mirth fading away into an expression much too serious for someone her age. She pulled a red pencil from the cup contemplatively, then began to draw.   
  
Harry flicked his gaze up to her a few times, but mostly stayed focused on his own drawing. He sketched out the line of his bed, of the window, and carefully rendered Louis on the sill, staring out. By the time his drawing was finished, the milk was starting to bubble a little. He stood to pull it off the heat, adding in the chocolate powder and mixing in some sugar. He listened to the soft scratching sound of Phoebe’s pencil against the paper as he poured them both a mug and washed up the saucepan.   
  
When he turned back to the table, Phoebe had just set her pencil down. She’d used a few colours throughout her drawing; a variety of reds, oranges, greens, and blues. Harry set down her mug on the table, hovering over her shoulder as he tried to make sense of what she’d drawn.   
  
There were two seperate drawings on the page, it seemed. The first contained a crudely drawn house with seven figures out front made from lines and circles. Six of them had their hands joined, but the seventh was off to the right, a sack over its shoulder. It was the only figure with no face.   
  
In the second drawing, Phoebe had spent some time colouring the paper completely dark blue, with a strip of green at the bottom. There was only one figure in this drawing. It was wearing a red dress, and it was rendered tiny by the expanse of emptiness above it.

Phoebe pointed to it. “That’s me,” she said, pressing her finger into the page and smudging the colour a little. “That’s how my dream ended.”

Harry pressed a kiss to the top of her head and nudged her hot cocoa closer to her hand.

“Thank you, Harry,” she said, picking up the mug with both hands.

Harry walked back over to the drawer, then came back to the table with a fresh sheet of paper. He sat down across from Phoebe again, and she watched him with obvious curiosity as she drank her cocoa.   
  
Harry sketched quickly across the page, just barely making the lines for what he wanted to say. He looked between Phoebe’s drawing and his own a few times, just to make sure he’d gotten the details right.

Then, he turned over to page so she could see it. Her eyes widened as she took it in, leaning forward in her chair. On the page was a little girl in a red dress, standing on a field of grass with an empty dark blue sky above her. But she wasn’t alone. Harry had drawn in Daisy, Felicity, Charlotte, Louis, Lily, Geraldine, and himself. They were all grouped to the left of the drawing, leaving room on the right for an enormous creature. It had fur and horns and wings and six legs, and the little girl was holding out her hand towards it like a friend. He saw the second Phoebe recognised it.

“That’s a Felticat! From Doris!” she exclaimed, grabbing at the drawing and pulling it closer. “And it’s mine!”

Harry smiled and nodded. _The Magical Travels of Doris_ was far too long a title, he quite agreed. It was the title of Louis’ book series, the one he’d written for his sisters—though he’d never said as much, Harry had seen the way Louis looked when he read parts of it to his sisters at night to send them to sleep. Doris, the brave little girl looking for her lost brother, encounters the Felticat in the caves below Miriam. It’s a guardian, of sorts; hard to win over, but fiercely protective once won. Phoebe was staring at Harry’s drawing of it like she’s been given a whole batch of her favourite biscuits all to herself.

Harry drank his lukewarm cocoa as she started colouring his sketch in, filling the parts of it he’d left blank with enthusiastic scribbles of colour.   
  
That was how Louis found them several minutes later, the drawing almost complete. He walked into the kitchen yawn-first, pausing on his way towards the kettle to press a kiss to Phoebe's head in greeting.

“Good morning, Louis,” Phoebe said, barely containing her excitement. “Look what Harry and I drew!”

Louis finished filling the kettle and set it atop the stove to boil. Harry could tell he was still half-asleep, and he felt a pang of sadness at what must have roused him so much earlier than his normal waking time.   
  
But Louis smiled dotingly at his sister and came over to look at the paper she was waving about.   
  
Harry stood and collected his and Phoebe’s mugs as Louis laughingly captured the drawing from his sister’s waving hands. He washed up their mugs as Louis took it in.

“Oh,” Louis said, after a few moments. “Phoebe, this is beautiful. Did you do the colours?”

“Yes!” she replied. “I made my Felticat pink and yellow with purple spots and everyone got their own colour for their clothes.”

Harry turned at last, leaning against the sink as he dried the mugs with a tea towel. Louis was still nodding as he listened to his sister ramble on about how she’d chosen everyone’s colour, but he looked at Harry from the corner of his eye a few times. Harry couldn't quite make sense of his expression when he did.

Once the mugs were dry, Harry started to put away the drawing supplies. Lily would be down soon to get started on breakfast, and she’d want her kitchen to be in order when she did. Louis was still engaged with his sister, now talking about what she should name her Felticat and if Louis could write him into his next story somehow—which he promised he would.

Harry was just about to take the first drawing he’d done from the table when Louis caught his wrist.

Harry looked at him in shock, body still. But Louis was busy staring at the drawing.

“I’m sorry, it’s just–” Louis croaked out after a second. He looked up at Harry and cleared his throat, placing his hand back in his lap like Harry’s skin wouldn’t still burn with the trace of his touch for hours. “Nevermind.”

Phoebe frowned at them, no doubt annoyed she’d lost Louis’ attention mid-sentence. Harry smiled at her, and Louis seemed to snap out of whatever state he was in, turning back to face her and asking her to start again.

Harry left them to themselves after that, heading up to his room to get changed and ready for the day. There wasn’t anything he was required to do today—Louis insisted he wasn’t to work on weekends—but he was thinking he might walk to the shops and buy a few things they needed around the house.

That was, until a soft knock on his door interrupted him as he was styling his hair.

He pulled it open, half expecting to find another distraught Tomlinson sister having awoken from a bad dream.

Instead, he found Louis.

He was standing rather formally, hands clasped behind his back and posture straight.

“Harry,” he said, licking his lips in a familiar nervous tick. “Do you have any plans for today?”

Harry raised his eyebrows.

Louis waited for an answer.

Harry huffed out a small laugh, head tilted to the side. He leaned against the doorframe lazily and shrugged.

Louis pursed his lips at Harry's cocky behaviour, but didn't call him out on it.

“Well, in that case,” he said, barrelling on ahead with determination. “Would you like to come with us to visit my mother? I'm sure she'd love to meet you.”

Harry straightened, blinking. He was a little taken aback, not that he cared to admit it.

“You don't have to, of course. Feel free to say no,” Louis reassured earnestly.

Harry shook his head. He made a circle in the air between him and Louis, then pointed in the direction of the door.

Louis grinned. “Lovely! We won't be leaving for another few hours I think, just to give the girls time to wake up and have their breakfast.”

Harry smiled back at him. He was glad of the delay; he'd need those hours to prepare himself for meeting Louis’ mother, most likely. Mothers were very important creatures, and Louis’ more than most.

Louis turned away, then, and headed off towards his study. Harry watched him go with his heart in his throat.

He decided to spend the time before they left helping Lily with breakfast, distracting both her and himself by trying to pull her into a dance along to the brassy tune playing on her beloved radio. She laughed him off every time, but she was grinning as she served breakfast and ate with the girls in the dining room. Louis made an appearance about halfway through breakfast, and he seemed pleased to find the general mood happy; normally the girls were sombre, on Saturdays.

But today, the sun was shining and Harry had given Felicite a charming double-knotted braid that everyone was fawning over. They'd never seen such a style, apparently. Harry blushed a little under their praise, since he could hardly be considered skilled at braiding and he hadn't had any practice for a good long while.

There was just something about Felicite’s long, slightly wavy brown hair that reminded him of a half-forgotten memory; sitting in the servant’s kitchen at the castle he'd been raised in, eating porridge with his mother while his sister’s nimble fingers twisted through her long locks, making knots and plaits in complicated designs. She'd taught him how, and there was a few hundred years after he’d first cursed himself where he’d grown his own hair out to braid it as she used to, but the memories had faded with time. Most things did.

And yet, for the first time in centuries, sitting at a sturdy table with the noises of eating and sharing and laughing and _life,_ Harry could almost remember her name.

“So you’re coming with us today, Harry?” Felicite asked him, a private moment whilst the other girls were engaged in a discussion about their favourite teachers at school.

Harry smiled at her and nodded.

She hummed in thought, tucking a stray curl back into place. “I’m glad. She’s asked to meet you, you know.”

Harry didn’t know. He tilted his head to the side, teacup paused halfway to his mouth.

Felicite stole a glance at Louis, who had Daisy balanced on his lap as she regaled him with a story of how she’d narrowly avoided getting detention for stealing another kid’s lunch box after they’d insulted her friend. It was a story everyone at the table had heard many times, and it was harder each time to not congratulate her for her unwise actions.

Louis looked away from Daisy for a second, and his gaze met Harry’s. His eyes crinkled around the edges a little, just for a moment, then he noticed Felicite staring as well. He poked his tongue out at her.

She poked her tongue out right back.

Harry smiled into his tea. Felicite turned back to him, and his smile faded at the serious look on her face.

She looked oddly conflicted. Or, as conflicted as a young woman could look quite early on a weekend morning with marmalade smeared on her cheek and a messy antique braid on her head.

Harry waited patiently as she chewed her toast. He knew she had more to say, and having more to say was something he understood very well.

“He tells her about you.”

Harry didn’t ask her to elaborate. She’d already turned away, answering a question Charlotte had about whether she should learn to drive or not.

“‘Course you should, Lotts, I’ll teach you,” Louis added from across the table, bouncing Daisy on his knee even though she was much too big for such things.

“But none of my friends know!” Lottie cried.

Harry reached around Felicite to tap her shoulder. She turned to him attentively, and watched as he gestured to himself, pretended to steer a wheel, and made a sharp slash through the air. Finally, he pointed to his heart, pouting exaggeratedly.

Lottie giggled. “Yeah, alright, fine,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I don’t want to end up like you, a sad old man who can’t drive.”

Harry nodded grimly.

When he looked around the table again, it was to find Louis looking hastily away, and Felicite staring at him knowingly.

He ignored her for the rest of breakfast.

 

🜾🜾🜾

 

The place Louis’ mother was being cared for was a rather grim building, certainly not what Harry had pictured. Harry followed the Tomlinsons as they walked through the front entrance sombrely, then passed the reception desk to climb the stairs onto the third floor. The walls were a stark white, and the air in this building felt heavy, like it was harder it breathe just by being there.

Harry kept his eyes forward as they passed room upon room, then stopped in front of a door, identical to all the rest except for a name written on the front.

Johannah.

Louis cleared his throat before he knocked, adjusting the bright bouquet he had in his grip.

There was a beat of silence, then a clear voice called, “Come in!”

Louis pushed open the door.

Inside was a sparsely decorated room, well lit by a large window overlooking a tall oak tree, the road a small distance away. The sound of traffic and birdsong carried in with the breeze. In the centre of the room was a bed, crisp white sheets and fluffy pillows framing the body of the woman sitting upright in it. Her long brown hair fell over her shoulder in a loose braid, and she smiled as she closed the book she’d been reading in her lap.

She looked lovely, and tired, and warm.

“Is it Saturday again already? What a lovely surprise!” she said, beckoning her children inside. Daisy and Phoebe ran in the second they had permission, already crawling onto the bed to hug their mother. Felicite leant down to give her mother a kiss to the cheek, and Harry was struck by how eerily similar the two looked. Lottie was next, making sure to translate the twin’s excited flow of gibberish into understandable words so Johannah could keep up.

Louis entered last, holding the door open for Harry to step past before shutting it gently with his free hand. He smiled at his family as he made his way over to a small table by the window where a vase sat, some wilted flowers inside. He pulled them out carefully, then added the new bouquet he’d brought in their place. Harry split his attention between the girls’ conversation with their mother—mostly details about their classes, what they’d been learning and what their friends were up to—and the careful, precise way Louis arranged the flowers in the vase, like he knew exactly what would look best and he was willing to patiently craft the arrangement until it got there.

After the twin’s rambling had died down a little, Louis turned to his mother.

He pressed a kiss to her cheek in greeting as Felicite and Lottie had done, then whispered something in her ear with a shy glance towards Harry.

Johannah’s eyebrows raised.

“Hello, my dear,” she said to him, smiling warmly. “I’m sorry I didn’t see you there, what with all of these little monsters in the way!” She tickled Daisy and Phoebe, then grinned at their loud peels of laughter.

Harry nodded to her, reaching around Lottie to offer his hand.

“Oh, no, that won’t do!” she laughed as she pulled him down for a hug instead. “From what I hear, you’re practically family now.”

Harry was glad no one could see his expression. He hugged her back gently, squeezing a little before taking a step back. He lifted a hand to his chin, then let it drop.

Johannah tilted her head to the side in curiosity.

Daisy wriggled in her lap excitedly. “That means thank you!”

Harry grinned at her and nodded.

Johannah smiled at her daughter, then at Harry. “You’re welcome, love.”

“Mum, do you think I should learn to drive?” Lottie asked after a moment of silence. The conversation carried on from there, Harry content to watch and listen and the Tomlinsons chatted about anything and everything except the cold, hard truth hanging over everyone’s heads. And yet, Harry noted, none of them seemed unhappy; there were a few moments of melancholy and nostalgia, but there was much more love in this room than anything else. There was laughter and teasing and jokes, and Louis shared more about how his latest novel was going than Harry had managed to get out of him with several weeks worth of gentle needling, and there was sunshine and the leaves of the tree outside were such a beautiful shade of green.

By the time Johannah started to grow silent and withdraw a little, no one was left unsatisfied with their time with her. They seemed to be able to tell when she’d reached her limit; the twins crawled off the bed gently, and Lottie and Louis shared a nod.

“Alright, mum, we’d best get going,” Louis said, patting her hand.

Johannah smiled at him wearily, the sparkle in her eyes a little less bright. Harry took a step backwards towards the door, as did everyone else, but–

“Harry, love? Do you think we could have a quick chat before you go?”

Harry turned back towards the bed, eyebrows raised to his hairline.   
  
Louis looked between Harry and his mother almost panickedly, though Harry couldn’t imagine what he was afraid Harry would do to her.

He nodded nonetheless; who was he to say no. The girls offered their heartfelt goodbyes as the made their way out into the hallway, and Harry remained.

Louis nodded to him on his way past, expression apologetic. Harry frowned after him.

Perhaps… it wasn’t Harry who he’d been worried about.

The green door clicked shut once more, and Harry straightened his back. He walked over to the small chair beside Johannah’s bed, and arranged himself on the seat comfortably. She watched him with lowered eyelids and Harry hoped she wouldn’t tire herself out too much by talking to him.  
  
He smiled at her hopefully, waiting for her to break the silence.

“Has he told you about his father?”

 _Interesting,_ Harry thought. He settled back into the chair and shook his head.

She studied him. “Have you asked?”

Again, he shook his head.

She made a small humming noise, like he’d impressed her somehow. Harry tilted his head to the side.

“He was conscripted in the war, then we never heard from him again. It was quite the scandal in our neighbourhood; the girls haven’t said as much to me, but I know they’ve had it hard at school since. When you hear about those awful _shirkers,_ you don’t ever expect your own husband to be so cowardly.” She laughed a little, but it wasn’t a happy sound.

Harry’s brows furrowed as he processed this. He tried to look understanding, because he mostly was, it’s just—

 _What_ war?

He’d heard of war, obviously he had. There were always wars. But she hadn’t said _a_ war, she’d said _the_ war.

And a lot of things began to make much more sense, to Harry. It was like the last piece of a puzzle he hadn’t known he’d been missing, a piece that helped him solve this strange land he’d found himself banished to. There were always mentions, fragments, things he’d heard on the radio without realising he’d been paying attention, then promptly forgot about because there was always so much to _do._

“Did you fight, Harry? You don’t look old enough to have, but one can never tell.”

Harry shook his head. His gaze flickered to the side, tracing the lines of the flowers by the window as his mind reeled.

“Well, Louis’ had it a bit rough since he left, I’m sure you can imagine. He takes a lot upon himself. That was why I held out for as long as I did, trying to take care of the girls while my illness worsened. I didn’t want to be more of a burden that I already had, but…”

She followed his gaze out the window. She never finished her thought.

They sat in silence for a few peaceful moments. Then, Harry leant forward in his chair. Johannah followed his movement automatically, blue eyes watchful. He met her gaze as he raised his hand to his heart, fingers clawing at the fabric of his silk shirt as if he could tear it out from his chest. She frowned intently, tracking his hand as he pulled it away from his chest, then gestured towards the door with an open palm.

She looked at the door, the even green coat of paint, then at his earnest expression.

“You love him.”

He nodded, then tilted his head to the side.

“You love...them,” she guessed, the beginnings of a smile gracing her lips.

He nodded again.

“Thank you,” she said. “I’m sure you’ll take care of them. I can tell that I can trust you.”  
  
Harry blinked, sitting back in his chair. He wasn’t expecting the reaction her words stirred in him. He felt… proud, and understood, and loved, and–

–guilty.

Because she could trust him to take care of them, of course she could.

But she couldn’t trust him to tell the truth.

He just smiled, in the end—a thin smile, the most he could manage. He held her hand for a moment before he stood and waved his goodbye. She smiled after him, nodded her farewell, then the door made a quiet click as it shut behind his aching body.

“You alright, love?”

Harry turned, shaking himself off.

Louis was standing there with an open expression, eyes tracing every line of him like he could find a wound on Harry to explain the stiffness of his posture and the lines on his brow.

Harry let out a deep breath, making himself relax. He smiled at Lottie, and at Felicite, and at Daisy and Phoebe. Finally, he looked at Louis. Those careful blue eyes.

He nodded.

 

🜾🜾🜾

 

Harry didn't have the dream again until a week later. He’d been reading Louis’ latest magazine story—the one with the nuns, with only a few minor adjustments since he’d last read it—and he’d fallen asleep somewhere between the Lady Diana finding the blood-covered rosary and her seducing Sister Olivia for information.

The dream started in the bell tower of the story, and Harry was a nun gazing out onto a barren wasteland. Then, the belltower was his castle, and he was as he used to be. The piglets chased each other in the courtyard, the vines creeped up the parapets, and Jean was asking if he was ready for supper.   
  
Harry turned, a _yes_ on his lips, when he realised that he was Jean, and he’d been staring at Louis. Louis was wearing his crown, wearing his gold-thread-embroidered clothes, standing before his window, looking much wearier than Harry had ever hoped to see him.

“No, thank you, Jean,” Louis said. He turned away, stepping closer to the World Glass on the wall and gazing inside. Harry saw only a mess of awful writhing shapes inside, cream coloured and _wrong._ But Louis was staring at it like a lover: with awe, with gratitude, with care.

He wanted to rip the glass from the wall, all of a sudden. He wanted to smash it, to throw it out the window.   
  
He wanted to…

He…

He woke up.

This time, there was no lost girl at his door. There was no one in need of comfort but himself.  
  
He dragged himself out of bed tiredly, throwing a loose silken robe over his sleeping clothes. He tried to make as little noise as possible on the way down the stairs, but he was still in the process of learning this house, all of its flaws and imperfections. He put a little too much weight in the wrong place, and then a loud _creak_ interrupted the heavy silence.

He hunched his shoulders and looked behind him, but even after several long moments no one seemed to stir. He made his way down the rest of the way with more care, then passed through the foyer, down the hallway, and into the study.

He didn’t slow as he approached the mirror mounted on the wall. He walked over to it with purpose, knowing exactly what he would find.

Nothing at all.

His eyes looked grey in the low light, like he’d been desaturated; his colour belonged to the day, and all the night had were his shadows. They caressed his face, the shadows, as gently as a blade of grass or the wool of a lamb.

He relaxed his shoulders and took a deep breath.

Still, nothing appeared in the mirror.   
  
He turned away, ready to put his thoughts behind him, to calm his racing mind. His gaze landed on Louis’ desk, the typewriter sitting innocently in the centre.

Harry smiled to himself as he sat in Louis’ chair. The keys felt like an old friend beneath his fingers, despite how little he’d gotten to know them thus far.

He fed a new sheet of paper into the machine, then started a new row.

He typed.   
  
He didn’t think about what he was writing, he just _did._

It started off slow, like the first shy couple to take to the dance floor at a ball, but soon enough the words were flowing faster than he could stop them. He understood, somewhere between his seventh and eighth page, why Louis loved this so much, why he wrote the way he did.

There wasn’t any other way to write, perhaps. Or perhaps, this was how those who had too many feelings and not enough words wrote: with more words than they knew, and only one feeling.

_Express._

By the time his fingers stilled on the keys, he’d written twelve pages.

It wasn’t a story, not at all. It wasn’t even poetry, not as he understood it.

It was about the feeling of being able to breathe, but no air coming into your lungs. The feeling of opening your eyes to an extra few seconds of darkness as they adjusted to the light. The feeling of running a hand over your leg and coming away with blood on your fingers, but you hadn’t realised something had harmed you. The feeling of horror, of revulsion, as you stared into something writhing that shouldn’t be, something infected and claimed and owned.

It was every dark thing he’d thought in the time since he’d lost his voice. Perhaps even beforehand.

And he hated it.

He pushed the stack away from him suddenly, sitting back in the chair. Now that he’d purged those feelings, those sensations, he wanted them gone.

They didn’t describe him, he wasn’t limited by them; they weren't his anymore, they belonged to the paper—couldn’t he be _free._

 _Click,_ went the lamp on the mantlepiece. Harry jolted, looking up with wide, haunted eyes. Louis stood next to the lamp, hand still on the string. Harry blinked as his eyes watered. He’d forgotten there were new ways to light the darkness, without the candles he was used to.

He’d typed all those words with only the light of the full moon streaming in from the window behind him.

Louis met his gaze evenly. There were bags under his eyes, purple and angry. Harry hadn’t seen him since yesterday; he’d went to visit Johannah alone today, after the facility had sent word that her condition had worsened.

Harry’s breath caught in his throat as he swallowed the tears that threatened to well up at the sight of Louis, tired-eyed and messy-haired, limned by the light of the lamp as he watched Harry vomit his fears onto a page using his beloved tool of creation.   
The things Louis wrote were beautiful, as beautiful as he. And he did look particularly beautiful tonight, dressed only in a thin silk robe—similar to Harry, but without the underclothes.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked, voice scratchy.   
  
Harry nodded, hiccuping. He cleared his throat a few times and blinked at the bookcase, trying to get himself under control.

Louis made a noise of concern, moving away from the lamp and towards Harry. Harry shrunk back in the chair, moving his gaze to his lap.

He saw in his periphery that Louis paused at the desk for a moment before he rounded it to Harry’s side. 

He kept a safe distance, leaning against the wood and crossing his ankles. Harry’s gaze slipped from his lap to Louis’ legs, exposed from the calf down.

“What did you write, darling?”

Harry looked up at Louis for just a second, then away again. Louis had been staring at the moon, but his head was tilted towards Harry, like he was waiting for an answer.

Like Harry was capable of answering that question. Or that we would want to, want to pile his sadness atop Louis’ that was already too heavy.

He sighed wearily, then leant forward in the chair. It scraped against the floor as he shifted, and Harry pressed his head into his folded arms to hide from the noise.

But he stretched a blind hand out onto the desk, fingers searching. They closed around the stack of… something, that he’d written, and pushed it towards Louis. Because he'd asked.

“Thank you,” Louis whispered, his delicate hand hovering over Harry’s head, like he wanted to sink it into his hair but daren’t.

Harry held his breath for a moment, hairs on his arm standing on end and Louis’ fingers hovered over his scalp. His skin tingled, every inch of it where they weren’t touching but could be.

Then, Louis settled his hand into his hair.   
  
He sighed again, quieter this time, as Louis threaded his hand in his locks and scratched comfortingly at his scalp. Louis kept up his gentle petting as he read. The only noises in the room were Harry’s loud breathing and the sound of a page being turned every so often.

Harry lost track of time, drifting away into something almost like sleep as Louis’ hand kept him anchored and sane.

Eventually, the sounds stopped.

“Hmmm.”

Harry didn’t move.

Louis didn’t elaborate.

Harry peeked up at Louis, scanning his frowning face. Louis met his gaze after a moment, seemed to feel its weight somehow. His frown softened around the edges as he looked between Harry’s eyes.

“Would you like me to ask?”

Harry stared at him for longer than it should have taken him to answer that question. Louis waited patiently for an answer, hand an even presence in his hair.

By the time Harry had arrived at his answer, he’d asked himself too many new questions for it to matter at all. So, he stood.

Louis gasped a little in shock at the sudden movement, rolling backwards on the balls of his feet as he tried to accommodate for Harry’s body in the cramped space between the window and the desk.   
  
Harry didn’t let him go far. He caught his hips in his hands, marvelling at the softness of the material of his robe, the firmness of the muscle beneath. Louis’ hand had gone lax in his hair, loose and open like his wide gaze and his gasping mouth.

It only took a few seconds for Louis to recenter himself in Harry’s hold. He rocked forwards, his fingers tightened once more in Harry’s curls, and his lips curled into a smile.

Harry squeezed his hips, dragging his stare from Louis’ mouth to his eyes as he nodded.

Louis squinted at him, then his eyebrows raised as he remembered his question.

Harry watched the expressions flicker over his face in triumph; somehow, Harry had made Louis Tomlinson forget his own words.

“Oh, um,” Louis said, suddenly shy. Harry cocked his head, jostling Louis’ hand and causing him to cling tighter. Louis exhaled sharply and placed his free hand on Harry’s chest, a little too high to be over his heart. “Harry,” he licked his lips, sincere and soft and so much closer than Harry had ever gotten him, “are you alright?”

Harry nodded sharply, then leant forwards.

He saw the moment Louis closed his eyes, soft and fluttering like the beating of Harry’s heart, and they both leant towards each other. It took both an instant and a thousand years, like two trees growing closer and closer together while life blurred past. Harry was so close he could feel Louis’ shaky exhale across his skin.  
  
Then, there was a knock at the door.

Harry paused, face so close to Louis’ that he couldn’t take all his features; his face was a mess of Louis-shapes, blurring and layering on top of each other. They looked like very surprised shapes. Harry was sure he did also.

Neither he nor Louis sprang apart, or pushed the other away, or even collected themselves enough to speak. The door was pushed open much too soon for any of that.   
  
“Do you need anything, dear?” Lily asked, standing in the doorway in a nightgown and rubbing at her eyes. “I saw the light on–”

Harry and Louis stared at her as she lowered her hand and took them in. Her eyes widened for a moment, then she smiled. “Oh, I’m sorry to interrupt, loves. Carry on.”

She turned away from the and walked away from the door, leaving it wide open for all the house to see the way Harry’s hands fit on Louis’ waist and Louis’ hand curled perfectly in Harry’s hair.

Harry closed his eyes, squeezing them shut and hanging his head.

He’d gotten so _close,_ if only–

Louis stepped out of his hold and cleared his throat.   
  
“I think we’d best be off to bed, Harold.”

Harry nodded, still not opening his eyes.   
  
He heard Louis sigh softly, then walk away and out of the room. Harry only opened his eyes once he was sure Louis’ had climbed the stairs back into his room. He looked back down at the desk dejectedly, then stilled.

His something was gone.

Harry frowned at the place on the table where it should have been, then at the empty doorway.

 _Interesting_ , he thought, with a small amount of hope.

When he went back to sleep that night, there were no more dreams.

 

🜾🜾🜾

  
“Harry? Which one do you like better?”

Harry looked between the two hats in Lottie’s grip critically. He pointed at the blue one. The yellow one contrasted too much with her skin.

“Hmm,” she said, placing it on her head and staring at her reflection in the shop’s mirror. Geraldine had wandered off about five hats ago, and Harry had seen her heading towards the kitchen section of the ridiculously large department store. Most likely she was after a present for Lily, or something she needed for her business.

Lottie turned from side to side in the mirror, frowning at the hat. Harry raised his thumb at her, and her frown melted into a laugh.   
  
“I’m sorry to be such a pain about this, Harry.” She turned to him and smiled. “It’s just… If a girl is to be taken seriously for a job these days, then she has to look the part.”

Harry nodded as if he could at all understand.

Lottie pulled the hat from her head, leaving her soft brown hair sticking up in funny places. He grinned at the sight and reached a hand over to smooth it down.

She laughed again and batted his hands away. “Harry! You’re worse than my mum!”

Harry dropped his hands along with the corners of his mouth. Lottie seemed to realise what she’d said after a moment, and the light in her eyes dimmed.

She stepped away from Harry and stared down at the hat in her hands.  
  
Harry tapped her hand gently, waiting for her to look up at him again. He met her gaze openly, then pushed up the corners of his mouth with his fingertips.

When Lottie laughed this time, it was a much more sedated sound.

“Yes, I know, Harry. You’re right. She wouldn’t want us to be sad.”

Harry dropped his hands. Chances were, Johannah would pull through this rough patch and the girls would be able to see her again next week. So there was no use being sad about it, not when everything was going to be fine.

“Come on, let’s go find Gerry and get on home, shall we?”   
  
She turned away before Harry could nod, and led them off towards the kitchen section. Harry couldn't help but think about exactly what had happened in her life to make her such a grown up fourteen year old.

He supposed it was the same kind of things that had made him so grown up at fourteen.

 

🜾🜾🜾

 

“She asked me for a _vanilla_ sponge cake, and then two days later she’s knocking on our door complaining that it didn’t have enough _lemon!_ ”

Lily slammed the utensil drawer shut rather loudly, holding the new whisk Geraldine had gotten her up like she could beat more than just eggs with it.

Harry hid his laugh in his tea. He remembered Mrs. Hendrix arriving yesterday quite well; he’d shown her in, after all, and endured her painful questions and excessive attentions before leaving her to Lily’s company.

“The _nerve_ of that woman, honestly!”

Harry caught her hand before she could slam an egg into the counter in her anger.

She paused for a moment and sent him a grateful look. “Right you are, young Harold. No use letting her get to me, not when I charged her double for that sponge in the first case.”

Harry grinned at her, shaking her hand a little in celebration of her cunning.

She pulled away with a laugh, the expression highlighting the wrinkles on her face she’d gotten from a life of smiling. Harry turned the radio on after that, hoping it might cheer her up while she perfected her lemon-vanilla sponge recipe.

It worked, and by the time the sponge was in the oven he’d gotten her to dance around with him to an upbeat melody he didn’t know the words to.

“Now what’s all this, then? Get your own wife!” Geraldine called from the doorway, hands on her hips and a poorly concealed smile on her face.

Harry threw his hands up in surrender and backed out of the kitchen. He pressed a kiss to Geraldine’s cheek on his way passed, and smiled to himself at her outraged squawking.

He was so distracted by his amusement that he didn’t look where he was going, and ran right in to Louis in the hallway.

“Oh!” the man breathed, steading him on instinct and not making any moves to step away from how closely pressed together they were.

Harry could almost feel the rise and fall of Louis’ chest against his own, separated by two shirts and two waistcoats and too many words Harry couldn’t say.

Harry hadn’t managed to make his eyes return to their normal size yet, so he was left staring at Louis like a surprised owl in a midnight forest.

He _hadn’t_ been avoiding his employer for the past few days. Not for lack of trying, mind you; it was just hard to not be around someone when your job required you to spend all day doing things for them, sorting out their finances and reading over the story drafts you’d managed to convince them to show you and finding gentler ways to phrase your suggestions and always _staring at them when they weren’t looking with far too much desperation and–_

Louis smiled at him. They were still standing there in the hallway, and Harry hadn’t breathed since he’d bumped into him, and Louis looked so hopeful all of a sudden.

Harry took a step back.   
  
He ran a smooth hand down his stomach and nodded, walking forwards around Louis with a wide berth.

“Harry, wait!”

Harry paused. He turned to look at Louis over his shoulder, running a hand through his hair to distract himself from Louis’ piercing eyes.

“I–um–” Louis stuttered. Harry raised his eyebrows at him. It wasn’t often Louis did anything as undignified as _stuttering._ But then again, he’d gone out last night with his pack of wolves, and Harry had declined the invitation to join much to everyone’s loud dismay, so who knows what he’d gotten up to. Harry swallowed the lump in his throat as he waited for Louis to finish his thought, banishing the memories that were swirling unbidden through his mind—dancing, laughing, pressed close together as that loud awful _wonderful_ music played.

“The signing at Foyles is tomorrow. Don’t forget.”

Harry had to stop himself from snorting. Louis had been planning that signing with his agent for months now; it was the start of many strategic appearances he was scheduled to attend to promote the release of his next novel in a few months time.   
  
Harry still hadn’t convinced Louis to let him read all of it—just bits and pieces he’d needed advice on—but he was sure it would be as amazing as the other two.

Louis didn’t seem to do anything that wasn’t amazing.

Harry nodded solemnly, then turned away again.

He didn’t wonder what Louis had been about to say, before he’d lost his nerve. Or, at least, he tried his best not to.

 

🜾🜾🜾

 

The suit he’d had fitted pinched at his skin in odd places. The fabric was at once scratchy and soft, and Harry had to resist the urge to peel it from himself every few minutes.

But there were children around. So, _so_ many children. And Louis was sitting in front of them, reading from his first novel expressively. He did all the voices, and acted it all out, and they loved him. They laughed and gasped and cheered, all the while their parents milled about in the huge bookstore and bought a copy each of his novels for the signing that would commence shortly. No doubt their children would be begging for one of his books, given how they were hanging off his every word.

Harry was...quite distressed. He was handling the sight of Louis surrounded by children quite poorly; it was almost embarrassing, really. He was supposed to be a king, yet here he was, practically fanning himself as Louis read to a bunch of babies.

It was moments like these that Harry was taken back to his time watching Louis from afar. He’d been so drawn to him from the moment he saw him, and no amount of exposure to anyone else in this new scarred world had made him change his mind.

It was about time he admitted it to himself; he was well and truly in love with Louis William Tomlinson. There wasn’t ever going to be anything that could change his mind.

_Oh, dear._

He’d managed to calm himself down a little by the time Louis was done. He hugged some of the children goodbye, shook a few hands, answered a few questions, and then extracted himself politely from the fray.

“How’d that go, do you think?” Louis adjusted his hair, scanning the bookstore and returning the thumbs up his agent sent him as she conversed with the store owner.

Harry pursed his lips. He waited for Louis’ gaze to return to him before he could answer, and once it did he simply nodded.

“Yeah? If you’ve got suggestions, I’d love to hear them. I’ve still got to do about twenty more of these, not to mention the rewrites and…”

Louis trailed off. He looked drained, all of a sudden. The high from his reading hadn’t so much as worn off as it had been ripped off by his musings on how much work he had coming his way.

But Harry knew that it wasn’t really about the work.

He tapped Louis’ arm, making him jump a little from where he’d zoned out frowning into the middle distance. He tilted his head to the side and studied Louis’ face.

Louis’ mouth turned down. Then, he straightened his shoulders and took a deep breath. The question Harry had been asking was, _are you okay?_ And Louis had just answered yes, without a word being spoken.

“Liam Payne has invited us to dinner tonight at his family’s estate, would you like to come after we’re finished?” Louis’ eyes were pinched nervously.

Harry frowned at the sudden subject change, leaning back. A dinner invitation? How was this the first he’d heard–

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Harry, he only invited me last night,” Louis said, cheekiness poking through his melancholy like the first ray of dawn.

Harry poked his tongue out at him, because he couldn’t resist.

Louis snorted, but before he could respond his agent was pulling him away to have a quick chat. Louis sent him a regretful look before turning back to her and walking off.

Harry watched him go, then shook himself off. Surprise dinner invitations meant last minute outfit planning, and he most certainly couldn’t wear this itchy suit.

 

🜾🜾🜾

  
  
“Stop fidgeting, love, you look great,” Louis hissed under his breath as he knocked on Payne’s door.

Harry stilled immediately, a flush burning itself onto his cheeks. He wasn’t sure if it was the fact that Louis could tell he was fidgeting out of nerves when really he’d just been adjusting a button—he’d never met anyone that could read him so well—or if it was the fact that Louis thought he looked great, or even that Louis had called him _love,_ but he was still a blushing mess when Liam pulled the door open.

“Liam!” Louis cried, pulling him into an enthusiastic hug as if he hadn’t been sitting around looking sad all afternoon. Harry watched as Louis complimented Liam’s choice of pocket square, the same bright-eyed man he’d been on happier days than this one. Not that he hadn’t had smiles to share for Harry—he always seemed to—but in between he’d been reserved and melancholy, fields away from his now-animated expression.  
  
He wondered, for the first time, if Louis had told his friends about his mother’s condition.   
  
Surely if he had, he wouldn't feel the need to pretend everything was alright. Like how he was with Harry.

“Harry! Good to see you again, old chap!” Liam laughed, shaking his hand vigorously. Harry grinned at him, charmed by his sincerity, and followed him into the house.

“We’re just enjoying some refreshments in the parlour before dinner starts,” he offered over his shoulder. He beckoned them into an ornately decorated room, sofas and chairs spread about with at least thirty people standing and sitting and chatting and sipping from crystal glasses.

Harry gulped, then settled into himself. This was a recognisable scene, he’d done this millions of times.   
  
If he pretended all of these people were his subjects, then they couldn’t intimidate him.

Louis seemed to be a little out of his element as well. He snagged two drinks from the nearest tray the instant Liam left their side and offered one to Harry.

“I’m sorry I didn’t warn you about this. Liam’s family is quite...well off.”

Harry sent him a dry look over the rim of his glass, and Louis’ concern melted away.

“Come on, I’ll introduce you to the couple of people I recognise,” he said with a fond twist to his lips.

Harry laughed as Louis grasped his hand, pulling it over his arm like a gentleman escorting his particularly shy lady-friend. The angle didn’t quite work, with the height advantage Harry had, but he hunched a little to make up for it.

“That group over there’s from Liam’s family’s business,” he said, pointing to a group of stuffy-looking older men in crisp suits.  “Oh! That one’s his Aunt Florence,” Louis whispered as they passed a charming older lady fiddling with the radio. “She’s an heiress, and she likes me a little too much, so dont–Oh! Hi, Florence! How are you?”

Harry pressed his lips together as he dragged Louis away from the woman’s sharp gaze. Louis laughed as he stumbled after him, waving his apologies to her.

“Louis! Harry! Over here!”

Harry craned his neck around to find Niall and Zayn standing in the corner, hogging an entire tray of tiny sandwiches to themselves. Niall was wearing a charming navy blue waistcoat that complimented his white suit, and Zayn was wearing a pair of braces underneath his red jacket that looked very familiar.

Louis gasped as they neared the men, pulling Harry to a stop. “Are those _mine?_ ”

Zayn shrugged, an exaggerated grimace on his handsome features; it the sort of expression that might have said, _what are you gonna do about it, punk?_ If it hadn’t been so sarcastic.

Louis huffed, pointing to the pair of braces he was also wearing, like that might make Zayn take his off. If Harry had to choose, he would say that Louis looked better in them. But no one asked him, so he kept his opinion to himself.

Zayn’s face broke into a smile. “I stole them last night, thought I’d surprise you.”

Louis rolled his eyes, leaning forward to steal a tiny sandwich. “Well, congratulations, I’m very surprised.” His words were muffled by his mouthful.

Harry smiled at his drink.

Harry spent the time before dinner started listening as Louis chatted with his friends, joining in from time to time when he felt like it. It was hard to talk to people these days, since he’d developed so many gestures and expressions and ways of saying things without having to write them down that everyone in the household could understand, but required a little explaining to others. So Louis would talk to Liam and Niall, and Harry would talk to Louis, and Louis would tell them what he’d said. It wasn’t perfect, but it worked.

It had stopped working come dinner.

Harry sat stiffly next to Louis as the man was captured in conversation by some godawful Baron who’d heard of his stories and was asking a million impertinent questions.  
  
Harry enjoyed his food as best he could, and watched the interactions of those around the table whilst he pretended not to listen in to Louis’ conversation. It was hard not to; his other option was listening to an old married couple on is other side bicker under their breaths.

“So, I’ve heard some rumours that you also publish under a pseudonym. Is there any truth to that, Tomlinson?”

Harry swore he could feel Louis stiffen in his seat next to him. It was confirmed when Harry shot him a glance. The man was sitting bolt upright and staring at the Baron like a hare strung through with an arrow.

Harry slipped his hand underneath the table and rested it on Louis’ thigh, just above the knee. It was, perhaps, very inappropriate, but Louis relaxed under his touch and he let out the breath he’d been holding.

Harry didn’t have any hope the Baron wouldn’t draw his own conclusions based on Louis’ reaction, no matter what his answer might be.

“Yes, actually, that is true. I publish monthly stories for _Carnation,_ have you heard of that publication?”

The Baron’s twisted upper lip told Harry that he had.

“Oh, _that_ rag? I have to admit, I thought more highly of you than that, Tomlinson.”

Harry’s hand squeezed Louis’ leg on instinct; his whole body tensed, hearing someone insult Louis’ work so bluntly. And to his _face._

Harry resisted the urge to make a scene.

Louis cleared his throat rather pointedly. Harry felt his hand join Harry’s, resting above like a weight, a claim. “In that case, I’m sorry to have disappointed you. Please, excuse me.”

Harry’s hand slipped from Louis’ thigh as he stood, every move precise and tense. He nodded to the Baron politely and tucked his chair back into the table, ignoring all the stares directed his way by the other guests. Harry scrambled to follow, not even bothering to say goodbye as he chased after Louis. He marched away from the dining room, passing the door to the parlour. He didn’t slow, and Harry couldn’t call out to him, so he simply followed as Louis turned one way and then the next.

Finally, he stopped in front of a door. It was tucked away towards the back of the house, and when he pulled the door open Harry could see that it was a small music room with a charming view of the Payne Estate’s well manicured garden.

Harry hesitated before closing the door behind himself, watching cautiously as Louis leant against the floor-length window and stared into the dark bushes outside.

He walked over to him slowly, like Louis might spook at any moment. But when Louis turned to meet his gaze, he didn’t look scared or cornered; he looked righteously angry and furiously sad.

Harry raised a hand to—well, to offer comfort, somehow. But he decided against it when Louis flinched back.

“This is hardly the first time I’ve been insulted at a dinner party, Harry. You don’t have to treat me like a child.”

Harry stepped back in alarm, a deep groove carving itself between his brows. Of course he hadn’t been treating Louis by a child, he would never belittle him like that. Even adults needed comfort, especially ones in pain, and Harry was particularly predisposed to offer it to Louis, should he ever want it.

Louis’ glare softened at Harry’s hurt expression, and he turned around to face him with a sigh, back leaning against the window. He always looked so ethereal in the moonlight, even when he was biting Harry’s head off for no reason.

“I’m sorry,” he offered, looking away at the rose bushes then back at Harry from under his eyelashes.   
  
And of course Harry forgave him; Louis needn’t make him melt to accomplish that. But...maybe Louis didn’t know what that look did to him.

It wasn’t like Harry had ever said.

He kept his distance, though, and his frown didn’t lessen. Just because Louis had realised he shouldn’t snap at him didn’t mean he was alright.

“It’s just–it’s so _frustrating–_ ” Louis growled, running a fast hand through his hair and messing it up a little. He’d left his suit jacket on his chair in the dining room, as had Harry, and Harry’s gaze caught on the wrinkling of the fabric of Louis’ shirt at his shoulders and biceps, the harsh lines of the braces against his curves. “I begged my agent to let me publish everything under my name, and she wasn’t an ass about it but she let me know it wouldn’t be possible with the way the industry works. Louis Tomlinson writes for children, and William Poulston writes for queers, and never the twain shall meet.”

Harry watched Louis’ jaw work as he ground his teeth. He didn’t really know what to say to that; he had no advice to give, only sympathy to offer. And something told him Louis wasn’t in the mood for sympathy.

So, Harry turned away. He sat down on the piano stool, smiling at the delicate floral embroidery of the cushion, and lifted the lid to set his hands on the keys. He’d never played one of these, but Felicite was very well accomplished at it and kept one in her room. And he’d had a millenia to perfect how to play the pipe organ in his palace’s Cathedral (the one that collected dust about five years after his reign had begun; he’d never specified that his people were to attend mass, since he’d thought they could decide that for themselves, and so they never had). The mechanics were quite similar, really.  

He snuck a glance at Louis, who was still staring out at the garden, an angry frown on his face. Harry straightened his back and started playing.   
  
Louis looked over the instant he recognised the tune. It was one he played often on his gramophone, and Harry had noticed it had never failed to cheer him up.   
  
He stumbled a little on the notes here and there, and the rhythm was a little wonky since he was playing it from memory, but none of that mattered. Because a smile had overtaken Louis’ face, and when Louis was smiling, everything was right in the world.

“Shove over, I’ll show you how to play it properly,” he said, once the final note was ringing in the room.

Harry looked up at him with what he was sure was a grossly adoring expression and made room for Louis on the seat.

He needn’t have bothered, as it turned out, because when Louis sat down next to him he pressed himself so close that Harry could barely breathe.

Tentatively, like you would trying to coax a field mouse into your hand, Harry wrapped his arm around Louis’ waist and pressed his chin to his shoulder.   
  
Louis was stiff under his hold for a moment, frozen eyes staring at his fingers where they were poised on the keys, musicians awaiting their conductor. Then, he let out a breath and snuck a glance at Harry from the corner of his eye.

Harry smiled at him, just a soft little thing, and Louis looked away quickly.

Then he did the most amazing thing; he _blushed._

“Well, um, you almost had the–the melody, but it starts in a higher key,” he said, pausing to clear his throat. Then, he started playing.   
  
Harry watched his fingers, transfixed, as they danced across the keys. Harry was quite a talented musician, to put it humbly, so he recognised the perfection in Louis’ performance for what it was; repetition.

Louis played this song like Harry had done the lullaby his mother used to sing him when he was first learning the lute, he played this song as Harry had read his favourite book for the millionth time.

He played it like a lover, and Harry watched with awe.

There were parts of it that felt incomplete, without the lyrics, but he couldn’t bring himself to interrupt the performance to ask Louis to sing along. But Louis slowed, as he got to the last chorus, and started humming to himself a little, almost like he’d read Harry’s mind.    
  
Harry squeezed his hip, and Louis blinked at him. The humming had stopped but his fingers still played, the song winding down to almost a whisper.

“What is it, darling?” he asked.

Harry almost kissed him again. He felt himself moving forwards, a little, caught up in the moment and their proximity.   
  
He forgot himself, like he’d done the other night.   
  
He forgot that Louis’ happiness was more important to him than his desires, and he wasn’t owed a single thing just because he’d went and fallen in love with his employer, his stranger in a mirror, his Louis.

The very same Louis that was blinking at him so attentively, that was giving and loving and caring and in so much pain, though he thought he hid it well.

The frustration that Harry had been feeling as of late—that awful itch—faded away. If they were to be closer, then it would be on Louis’ terms. The runner must chase, and the lover must wait.

So Harry just shook his head and smiled. He pulled his arm away and sat back a respectable distance, ignoring how cold his side suddenly felt, and nodded back at the piano.   
  
_Play me another._

And Louis did.

 

🜾🜾🜾  


They rejoined the dinner party in time for desert, and the Baron daren’t engage Louis in conversation once more. Harry and Louis spent desert gossiping about the other guests. Well, Louis gossiped; Harry asked questions, then listened to the answers. It was decidedly unsociable, to ignore all the other guests attempts at conversation, but neither Harry nor Louis much cared.

Once dinner had ended Liam invited them to stay after dinner for some drinks in the parlour, but Louis politely declined.   
“We’ve had a long day, Payne, I think we’d best be off,” he said, already pulling his coat on.

Liam smiled sympathetically, and patted Louis’ shoulder. Louis rolled his eyes, then pulled him into a hug.

Harry waved goodbye to Niall and Zayn as they hugged, but not without first standing in front of the latter with his hand outstretched and eyebrows raised expectantly for as long as it had taken for Zayn to get the message and grumpily hand over Louis’ braces.

They walked from the estate with their heads held high.

 

🜾🜾🜾

 

That night, Harry had the dream again. It started as it always did; in the study. But this time, something felt different.   
  
Harry was lucid, and he saw the room as he would in wakefulness. The mirror was there, reflection as normal as it always was, and there wasn’t any of the fogginess that normally came with dreams.

“Don’t you want to come back, Harry?”

Harry whipped around, and he was standing in the courtyard of his castle in the shade of his favourite tree. His clothes were intricately embroidered, his crown was a weight atop his curls, and Jean was standing before him, smoothing a hand down his waistcoat.

“Aren’t you tired of waiting to be happy, of caring for him, looking after those children?”

Jean took a step forwards, and Harry took a step back. His skin was paler than Harry remembered, almost powdery.   
  
“Wouldn’t you rather come back, where you never have to worry about anyone but yourself? A whole kingdom of people to wait on you, to adore you. He’ll never love you like we could.”

Harry shook his head vehemently.

He gestured, _No, it isn’t like that._ He tried to tell Jean that he didn’t understand, that he had it all wrong; being a king was never about being worshipped like a god, to him. He’d only ever wanted peace and happiness for his people. He’d only ever wanted to help.

Jean watched him talk as he did now—hand signals and expressions—with a dispassionate expression.

“No one can understand you out there, Harry. No one can hear you.”  
  
This time when Harry arose, he didn’t leave his room. He lit the candle on his bedside table with shaky fingers, and made his way over to the window. The wind was sharp when he cracked it open, but Harry needed that sharpness, just for a little while.

It wasn’t the worst night of sleep he’d ever had—almost heavenly compared to the first few nights he’d spent roughing it in various alleyways and benches around the city—but he was grateful come morning to start a new day and put his dream behind him.


	3. That Time Must Produce

It was the next day, and Harry was tending to the garden with Geraldine. Technically, they could have hired a gardener to look after Louis’ back garden, but Harry and Geraldine had taken it upon themselves to make sure all the plants were watered and free from weeds, and all the hedges were kept neat. 

They also planted a new row of begonias around the gazebo, just to brighten things up a little. They were growing happily, so far: just little green shoots from the ground, but they'd be ready to flower come Summer. 

Harry was kneeling over one of the begonias and carefully pulling out some weeds when the back door opened. 

Harry looked up, his sunhat coming askew from the motion. Louis was standing on the porch watching him with a nervous expression. 

“Good morning, Master Louis! Come to see the progress?” Geraldine called with an uncharacteristic grin. There were only a handful of things that made that woman grin, and her wife was most of them. The rest were either gardening related, or when one of the girls was being particularly adorable. 

Louis laughed and waved back at her. “Not exactly, though I will say it looks lovely back here! Excellent work.”

Geraldine waved off the compliment. “It was all Harry, really, I've hardly done anything.”

Harry stood and put his hands on his hips. Now  _ that _ was patently untrue. 

Before he could kick up a fuss, Louis spoke up. 

“Speaking of Harold, would you mind terribly if I borrowed him?”

Geraldine squinted between the two of them shrewdly, and Harry ducked his head. He'd already assumed Lily had passed on what she'd witnessed in the study the other night, but that look confirmed it. 

“Not at all, Master Louis. Go ahead.”

Louis looked to Harry expectantly, but Harry just crossed his arms and stayed exactly where he was. 

Louis frowned, then laughed loudly. “I'm sorry, Your Highness. Could you come with me, please?”

Even though the phrase had been dripping with his particularly sweet sarcasm, hearing Louis call him  _ your highness  _ sent a shiver down his spine. It had been months since anyone had called him that, and even though he'd lost his title and his kingdom, it still…made him feel something. 

He nodded his acquiescence and started towards Louis, peeling his gardening gloves off as he went. He left them on the porch stairs along with his hat for Geraldine to collect on her way in, since he'd borrowed them from her in the first place. 

“You're not keeping your hat on?” Louis asked cheekily as he turned to hold the door open for Harry. 

Harry smiled and shook his head. He was too busy pondering what could be causing the streak of nerves on Louis’ face to think of a comeback. 

As he stepped past Louis and into the house, he could have sworn he heard Louis whisper, “Pity,” under his breath. 

He quite agreed; it was a lovely hat. He didn't say as much, though. He just waited for Louis to close the door behind them and reveal what was so urgent that it couldn't wait until Harry had finished his weeding. 

“Um, I–” Louis stuttered. “Can I show you something?”

Harry nodded, folding his hands behind his back. 

Louis smiled nervously then started off towards the study, talking over his shoulder as he went. “I hope you don’t think I’m overstepping my bounds, but I wanted to apologise for snapping at you last night. So I might have… Well, you’ll see.”

Harry followed, more than a little bemused, and entered the study after Louis. Nothing seemed out of place at first glance, until he followed Louis’ eyeline to a pile of pages sitting innocently atop his desk. 

Harry raised his eyebrows at Louis, who nodded. “It’s for you.”

Taking a seat at the desk was strange under Louis’ watchful eye. He pulled the pages towards himself, pursing his lips and trying to ignore Louis hovering in his vision. 

“I’ll leave you to it,” Louis rushed out, backing out of the room. He was gone before Harry could protest, which only sought to heighten his nerves. What had Louis written him?

As it turned out, it was a story. Of course it was a story, he didn’t know why that surprised him. 

But...it wasn’t just any story. 

Harry sped through it at lightning speed, realisation dawning over him from the very first paragraph. Louis had taken his words—the awful ones, the  _ something  _ he’d made—and turned it into a tale about a boy who’d been locked in a tower his whole life, trapped in darkness and loneliness. And though there was more of a narrative here, Harry caught glimpses of his own work in between Louis’, saw the places where their words had fit together to create something.

But what Louis had done went beyond Harry’s words; it went  _ forwards _ . The boy escaped his tower, freed himself using his courage alone, and he went out into the world. The world was cruel to him, but he persevered, and he found a family to call his own. They took him in and they cared for him, and all the parts of himself that had been infected and claimed he learned to heal and regrow. 

By the time Harry had turned the final page, he was left wondering how it was possible to feel so  _ known.  _ There were tears staining the fresh ink on the pages, because Harry couldn’t contain the power of the feeling to just his body. It spilled out of him, in his breath and his skin and his tears; they soaked the air around him until all he could feel was this  _ feeling.  _

The feeling of having someone reach into your chest so lovingly, so  _ gently _ , and pry open your ribs, grasp onto your heart, pull it out, and show it to you. 

How Louis had done that when Harry had never said a word about his past was...unfathomable.

He stood, chair creaking against the floor, and had to steady himself on the desk for a moment. He took a deep breath and straightened his waistcoat, but a glance at the mirror on the wall told him there was nothing to be done for his red-rimmed eyes. He was about to step around the desk and hunt Louis down when the door creaked open and the man himself stuck his head in. 

He looked hopeful and nervous, leaning into the room like he might still bolt on a second’s notice. Then, he took in Harry’s appearance. 

“Oh, love.” He stepped into the room fully, scanning his face with a frown. “I’m sorry.”

But Harry was already shaking his head. He rounded the table with three even strides, crossing the room until he was right in front of Louis. He wanted to–to  _ express,  _ to show him–to be close, as close as he’d wished to be from behind that mirror and a whole world away–to feel him, and be felt, and–

He raised his hands frantically, and gestured between Louis and himself. Louis followed the gesture with a frown, leaning towards Harry like proximity might make him understand. 

“What is it, darling?” he asked, just like he had last night, when Harry had decided against doing this very thing. 

But he couldn’t remember a single reason why he shouldn’t, after what he’d just read.

Harry exhaled harshly, and gestured again. This time, he pressed his hand to his heart, then to his lips, then he hovered his fingers over Louis’ lips, afraid to make contact but  _ yearning.  _

Louis’ eyes widened and his breath hitched. Harry just stood there, staring at him. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears, and his eyes stung from tears, but he couldn’t look away now if he tried. 

Then, Louis did something absolutely miraculous; he  _ smiled.  _ It grew in a single moment, blossoming across his face like a bouquet in the sunshine, bright and crisp and wide. 

“Yes,” he simply said. “Of course.”

And he leant forwards, head tilted up, and pressed his lips to Harry’s. 

Harry’s heart—the one that Louis was holding in his hands, the same small hands that were pressed like brands to his chest—stopped beating, for a moment, and time stood still. He saw himself as he had been, forehead pressed to the world glass late at night, watching a young man who’s name he didn’t know tap away at a machine he couldn’t yet comprehend, a candle burning down as he realised that he already loved this stranger more than he’d ever love another. 

Then, Harry’s heart started beating again. And he was standing in a room, sunlight pouring in, birds chirping, and Louis Tomlinson was kissing him. 

He surged forwards into the kiss, capturing Louis’ face in both his hands and pouring everything he hadn’t yet said into it. Louis made a noise against him, something between a moan and laugh, and gave as good as he got.

Harry had experienced exactly four kisses in his tragically long life, and this kiss was the best by far. It was passionate and tender, soft and warm. It was wonderful, and everything he’d wanted. 

Louis pulled back far too soon, breaking the kiss almost violently. 

“Are you alright? Did I hurt you?” he asked, standing on his tiptoes and looking between Harry’s eyes. 

Harry frowned in confusion– _ why would Louis think that? _ –when he felt something on his cheeks. It was then he realised he’d started crying again. Louis smeared the moisture away with a gentle caress, still awaiting Harry’s reply. 

Harry shook his head and caught one of Louis’ hands under his own, pressing it close. He closed his eyes for a moment and savoured the feeling of Louis’ skin against his cheek. There’d been moments when they’d touched, of course, brushes of contact as they walked or stolen moments of intimacy that flickered out almost instantly. Harry had never gotten to treasure this feeling. He turned his face into Louis’ palm and pressed a soft kiss to the centre, squeezing his eyes shut tighter at the sound of Louis’ soft gasp. 

“Harry, I–” Louis started, then stopped himself. Harry opened his eyes as he pulled Louis’ hand down to rest above his heart. It was still racing, like the fluttering of a bird’s wings. Louis didn’t seem to want his hand back, so Harry was content to hold it hostage until that stopped being true. 

He waited, as he was best at, for Louis to finish his thought. Louis licked his lips, and Harry’s eyes followed the movement. 

He’d  _ been _ there. The flush on Louis’ cheeks, the sweat on his brow, the messines of his hair; Harry had done that. 

And no matter what Louis said now, no matter how he phrased what was sure to be a very gentle rejection, Harry would remember that. 

“I haven’t been very fair to you.”

Harry rubbed his thumb along the back of Louis’ hand, comforting him even as he broke Harry’s heart. He knew what was coming from the way Louis was frowning, he’d known from the way he always pulled away, always escaped when things between them almost happened. 

He’d hoped—foolishly, selfishly—that he could convince Louis to change his mind, given time, but he’d blown that the second they’d kissed. 

It was too soon, and Louis had a lot on his mind, and he needed Harry as an assistant, not a lover. 

So Harry took a step back and dropped his hand. He didn't want to make this harder than it already was for Louis. 

But Louis followed him. For once, he didn’t let Harry pull away, rushing out a, “Wait! Don’t–” as he recaptured Harry’s hand with both of his and used it to pull them closer together. His face was a mask of pure determination as he held Harry’s hand above his heart—a mirror, a cycle, a balance—pressing it into the fabric of his dress shirt like Harry could feel the skin beneath.   
  
And he almost could. 

“What I mean to say is...I haven’t been honest with you about my intentions, and I’m sorry for that. I’ve tried to push you away as best I could, because I’m not very good at confronting my feelings, but you deserve better.” Louis looked golden in that moment, a lion at the head of a pride, and Harry was an injured antelope waiting for slaughter. “When I asked you to live with me–live with  _ us– _ I did it because I wanted you to, not because it made sense. Because it didn’t really make any sense at all,” he laughed. Harry was trying to listen to his words, but it took so much energy to just stand there and be let down that he didn’t really have much left to give. “And you’ve been such a wonderful assistant, better than I could have ever dreamed when I hung that idiotic advertisement in the bar, that I was so afraid to lose you when I’d only just found you.”   


Harry nodded at the ground. His skin was itching in Louis’ hold, and the soaring feeling of a moment ago had turned to dust. He could hear it coming, hear the words Louis was about to say ringing around in his head like a cruel melody. 

“But…Harry, you make me want to be brave. That’s what I realised, yesterday. That I’m braver when you’re with me. And I wrote you that story, because I was madly hoping that perhaps…”

Harry looked up at Louis urgently. This wasn’t going how it did in his head, this didn’t sound right. Louis was staring at him like he did the girls when he kissed them goodnight, like Lily when she told him how well her business was going, like Lottie when she’d got her first job interview yesterday; like his writing, like his gramophone, like the flowers he’d brought his mum, like–

“...I make you braver, too?” 

–like he loved him. 

_ Yes,  _ Harry wanted to scream,  _ of course you do,  _ but he could only nod frantically and pull Louis closer. 

“Yeah?” Louis laughed, leaning up and steadying himself with a hand on Harry’s waist. “I do?”

If Harry had known how to tell him, he would have done right then. If he knew how to say,  _ I came here for you, I gave up everything for you—for this life we have now—I’m so much braver now than I was for a thousand years, _ then he would have.   
  
But he had no idea, so he just did what he could. 

And he leant down to kiss Louis again, with intent and ferocity this time. Where the last kiss had been a caress, an embrace, this one was an act of binding. Harry kissed Louis like he could knit their souls together through their lips, their mouths, like if he tried hard enough than Louis couldn’t ever take it back. 

Louis squeezed his hip and kissed back for a while before slowing down and pulling away. 

Harry chased him as he went, pulling his eyes open to see Louis watching him with a weighted gaze.

“What do you want, sweetheart? Name it, it’s yours.”

Harry frowned. He pressed his forehead to Louis’ as he thought about it, taking a moment to savour the feeling of him pressed so close—chest to chest, almost skin to skin if it weren’t for their clothes. He had trouble coming up with an answer, because Louis could change his mind and walk away at any moment, so he couldn’t ask for too much or too little.    
  
In the end, he pulled away to tell Louis his answer. He simply gestured to Louis—all of him—making a circle around Louis’ chest that ended in a finger pointing into his breastbone. 

Louis stared at his finger for a moment, then his shoulders bounced on a laugh. “But Harry,” he said, catching the finger and giving it back, “you already have me.”

Harry rolled his eyes and shook his head, because Louis had known what he meant. And he certainly didn’t have him. 

Or, if he did, he wasn’t going to believe it so quickly. 

Louis put his hands on his hips. “Now, Harry, if I didn’t know any better I’d think you were calling me a liar.”

Harry schooled his features and shook his head, wide-eyed and fake sincere. Louis’ laugh rang like a bell.

“Well–” he cut himself off with a frown, glancing urgently over his shoulder. “Shit, Harry, I have to go.”

Harry looked between Louis and the clock on the mantelpiece. Louis was right; he had a meeting with his publishers in half an hour. A very important meeting, where they would straighten out the release date of Louis’ book and organise its printing. The manuscript was almost ready to be sent to the editors, but his publishers were eager to get it out as soon as possible. 

Louis scrambled around his desk, pulling things out of drawers and messing up his filing system. Harry tutted softly and walked over to help Louis find the things he needed for the meeting—the ones he’d already put in a neat pile in the bottom drawer.   
  
“Oh, thanks, love,” Louis said when Harry handed it to him. His gaze travelled up Harry’s arm and to his face, flickering over his features like he wanted to memorise them. Like he wouldn’t be back in a few short hours. “I’m really sorry to leave in the middle of...this.”

Harry shook his head and steered Louis towards the door by his shoulders. Louis went willingly, giggling under his breath. Harry directed him right to the front door, then handed him his coat and hat. 

“Wish me luck?” Louis smiled crookedly. 

Harry didn’t know if he was allowed to kiss him again, even though he desperately wanted to. So he pressed a chaste kiss to Louis’ cheek instead, and mouthed,  _ good luck,  _ once he’d pulled back. 

Louis left with a pinkness to his cheeks and a grin on his face. 

 

🜾🜾🜾

 

Harry and Louis didn't get to spend a moment alone for the rest of the day. Once Louis was done with his meeting, he had to pick up the girls from school, and then Lily needed everyone's opinions on her macaroon recipe, of course, and then Lottie arrived home with news of how her job application at the nearby department store went, so everyone had to crowd around her in the parlour and listen to every detail of her very unfair rejection. After that, supper was served. 

“Louis, will we be able to visit Mama this Saturday?” Daisy asked. 

Louis had been a little quiet during dinner. There'd been an angry grimace on his face since he'd heard Lottie’s story, and Harry had only managed to catch his gaze the once; he'd smiled in a way he hoped was comforting, and Louis had smiled back weakly. 

But he looked up at Daisy’s words. 

“Oh, um,” he fidgeted. “I'm not sure, Daisy. I haven't heard if she's been feeling better or not.”

Daisy nodded, a deep groove carving itself on her small brow. Phoebe looked similarly distressed, and no one said much of anything for the rest of supper. 

After the dishes had been cleared and Harry and Louis had seen all the girls off to bed, Harry finally managed to catch Louis alone—literally catch him as he walked past Harry towards his bedroom.

He froze up, hand on Louis’ elbow, as his eyes flitted between Louis’ surprised blue eyes. 

He had absolutely no idea to how ask him the burning question he'd been dying to ask all day. How do you ask someone as beautiful as Louis, a man with a million words in his heart, a man who Harry had yet to be at all honest with about his past,  _ do you love me? Could you, please?  _

So he took a step back, ignoring the weight of Louis’ gaze, and nodded his goodnight. Louis didn't stop him as he walked away, and Harry didn't know why he'd expected otherwise. He pushed open the door to his small, barren room with a sigh. 

This morning was probably a mistake, he thought. A lapse in judgement on Louis’ part, or perhaps he'd felt sorry enough for Harry that he'd let him kiss him. 

But such an assessment hardly painted Louis in the most favourable light, so Harry shook himself off. 

He couldn't possibly know what Louis had been thinking. 

Not unless he asked. 

_ You make me want to be brave. _

He sat down on his bed heavily and stared at his closed door. 

He was about to stand again when a loud knock sounded. 

“Harry, love, do you think we could talk?”

Harry closed his eyes for a moment, basking in the sound of Louis’ voice, saying the exact right words as if he'd read Harry's mind. Then, he wrenched his eyes open and ran to the door—he couldn't leave Louis without a response. 

Louis took a step back in alarm as Harry wrenched the door open, then he smiled. 

“Would that be alright? Are you too tired?”

Harry shook his head vigorously and stepped aside to let Louis in. 

Louis looked so at home in his room, like he'd been born from the very floors on which he stood, like the walls were his ribs and the bed his heart. He sat down on it familiarly, surveying. 

“This used to he my Grandmother's house, did you know? I used to stay in this room when we visited her, back before her son abandoned his family and left us in shame.” Louis stared at the chest of drawers, face oddly blank. 

Harry closed the door carefully. 

He wondered why Louis would even think to ask if he'd known that. He did that alot, Harry had noticed. It was like he expected Harry to already know everything about his life, like he'd forgotten how long ago they'd met. He also did  _ this  _ alot, this right here; one minute he was full of joy, and the next he was full of a bitter kind of sadness. The mood swings were hard to predict, but Harry had gotten better at handling them.

He walked over to Louis and pulled open the drawer on the bedside table. From within, he pulled out a sheet of parchment paper and his spare fountain pen. Then, he knelt on the floor at Louis’ feet, body twisted so he could write on the flat surface of the table. 

He heard Louis’ breath hitch as he did, but Harry didn't spare him a glance just yet. He was busy writing on the paper, writing as neatly and as quickly as he could. 

“Is that for me to read?” Louis asked, and Harry felt his breath shift the hairs on the back of his head as he leaned over to read over Harry's shoulder. 

Harry nodded and pulled back so Louis could read better, angling the paper towards him. 

_ My grandmother died when I was young,  _ it said.  _ I never knew my father or his family, but my mother’s mother was a kind woman. She had no home to give me—or, at least, nothing as nice as this one—but she cared about me, and she taught me which herbs to eat for a cold and which to eat for an ache, and to love myself as I did others. _

Louis made a soft noise after a moment. His hand came up to rest on Harry's shoulder, and he tugged him back a little. 

He plucked the pen from Harry's hand, and when Harry twisted his head to gauge his expression he saw a cheeky twist to his lips. 

Underneath Harry's neat passage Louis scrawled,  _ she sounds like a witch.  _

Harry snorted soundlessly and shrugged. It wasn’t far from the truth. He looked at Louis again and studied the shapes of his face from this angle. 

He didn't often get to look up at Louis. 

Louis turned to meet his eyes, then tilted his head. 

“Thank you for telling me that, darling.” He licked his lips, and Harry mimicked the action mindlessly. “I know you don't like to talk about your life.”

Harry stopped breathing. 

“No, it's alright, H,” Louis rushed out, sliding off the bed to kneel in front of him. There wasn't much room between Harry and the furniture, so their bodies were pressed together quite closely now. It helped a little to calm Harry's spinning mind. “I don't ask because I can tell you don't want me to, but I'd hate for you to feel like I didn't care, because I've treasured every little piece you've given me.”

Harry ducked his head, avoiding Louis’ too-insightful gaze, but he brought his hands up to rest on his waist and hold him close, lest he mistake Harry’s embarrassment for rejection. 

Louis made a humming noise and shimmied a little in Harry’s hold, getting comfortable against the bed. “Perhaps I’ve been a fool this whole time I’ve been gentle with you, if speaking my mind makes you blush this way.”

Harry looked up finally, wrinkling his nose at Louis but refusing to shy away from the attention. He hadn’t known he was blushing, but if it meant Louis would look at him as he was now then he would gladly submit to being seen doing so. 

Louis smiled at him for a moment, a shine to his eyes that hadn’t been there before. The blankness from a moment ago might as well have never happened, with how little trace of it there now was on Louis’ face. He looked so full of love, now, and so soft. He brought a hand up between them and pressed his fingers to his lips, then to Harry’s—snorting softly at the way Harry went cross-eyed as he watched their path. Then, he tilted his head to the side, tapping his fingers against Harry’s lips as he awaited the answer to his question. 

_ Can I kiss you? _

Harry smiled against Louis’ fingertips, then grasped Louis’ hand in his own and brought it away from his face. He nodded, trying to ignore the swarm of bees crawling their way through his insides as he leant forwards. 

Louis met him halfway, and this time their kiss was soft, gentle. It felt like waking up to sunlight and birdsong. 

Harry found himself leaning into it, chasing Louis’ mouth and pushing his torso against the bed. 

Louis moaned in response, tangling the hand not already holding Harry’s in his hair to tug him closer and deepen the kiss. The swarm of bees in Harry threatened to take over, the buzzing was so loud in his ears and his insides were all crawling. Kissing Louis felt wonderful—amazing, even, magical and better than he’d ever imagined—but he’d never–

This feeling, the stirring in his groin, the way Louis’ breath was coming out in fast pants as he pulled Harry  _ closer,  _ he’d never–

There was a knock at the door. 

Harry pulled back immediately, wishing he wasn’t grateful for the interruption. He was sure he looked a flushed, panting mess, and even Louis looked a little hazy round the edges. 

Louis cleared his throat, calling, “Who is it?” 

“Louis! Daisy and I can’t sleep, will you read us a bedtime story?” came a voice from the other side of the door. 

Louis pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. “I’ll be right out, Phoebe,” he answered. Harry heard the tell-tale sounds of little feet pitter-pattering away, and turned back to Louis. 

“I’m sorry,” Louis rushed out, leaning forwards and smoothing his hands down Harry’s chest. 

Harry nodded in understanding. He caught one of Louis’ hands and brought it up to his mouth, inhaling the skin for a moment in a vain attempt to calm his racing heart. 

Never in his life had he experienced carnal desire, or wanted to be close to someone in such intimate ways. But with Louis… he wanted everything with Louis. And it scared him.

“Are you alright, darling? Was that—was that okay?”    
  
Harry looked up into Louis’ sea-blue eyes, hating to see them so filled with concern. 

He nodded, of course, then he paused. 

_ Later _ , he signed. 

Hopefully a night’s sleep would help him gather his thoughts. 

“Alright,” Louis said softly. He moved to stand, then sat back down heavily. He darted close for a final chaste kiss to Harry’s lips, then the next moment he was standing and walking out of the room. 

Harry stood as well as Louis loitered in the doorway for a moment. His lips felt afire after Louis’ quick kiss, but he couldn’t stop himself from grinning.

“Goodnight, Harry,” Louis said. 

Harry just waved stupidly, but it was worth it for the way Louis grinned. 

 

🜾🜾🜾

 

  
Harry was sitting under his tree. He’d been sitting here for hundreds of years, and he would be sitting here for hundreds more. 

The sky was a brilliant blue, and he took a second to admire it. His castle towered over him, full of weight and dreams undone. 

And then there was Louis. He sat down in front of Harry and looked around the garden, took a second to smile at the little lambs and piglets. 

Harry opened his mouth to greet him, then closed it again. He waved, instead. 

And Louis waved back. His skin looked odd in the sunshine, papery and white around the edges. Harry frowned and reached for him, then his gaze caught on his own skin. It was the same, crinkling and bleached. 

A lamb trotted over to them, movements jerky and strange. It spoke with a voice like broken glass. 

“What would you know about him, Harry? About a body? About a man?”

Harry curled into a ball. The sky darkened and his tree grew, looming over him like the castle. His waistcoat felt so tight, and perhaps it always had. 

“You can’t hope to keep him. He’s not yours to have. Always  _ so _ greedy.”

Harry couldn’t breathe, no air was getting his lungs.   
  
His head was swimming, his chest was convulsing, the lamb was still talking, saying  _ awful, true  _ things, and–

He took a deep breath. 

Then another, and another. He kept his eyes shut, hands clenched on the sheet that enveloped his body. 

Eventually, he’d calmed his heart enough to sit up. 

He stared at the morning sky through the window until the clouds started moving too quickly, then he sighed. 

The dreams were beginning to weigh on his soul. He never remembered dreams, usually, but every last one since he’d left the castle was so vividly burned in his memory that he couldn’t shake them if he tried.

He’d been ignoring them, so far, because there wasn’t much else to be done. 

He didn’t know how much longer he could do that.   
  
He looked over to his bedside table for a glass of water to ease his burning throat, then paused. 

Sitting next to his glass was a stack of papers, neatly aligned and staring up at him hopefully. He shuffled closer, then grinned. 

On the first page was typed, ‘ _ The Magical Travels of Doris: To The Sky and Beyond.’  _

It was Louis’ manuscript, the one he’d guarded furiously as he wrote it. But it was being edited professionally, now; was Harry supposed to edit it as well? Or just read it?   
  
Harry pulled himself out of bed and got dressed, eyeing the manuscript. 

He resolved to simply  _ ask  _ Louis what this cryptic gesture meant, but his plan was hindered when he went downstairs.   
  
“Oh, good morning, Harry! Sleep well?” Lily asked as he walked past the kitchen. She was putting the finishing touches on the frosting for a red velvet cake, and Harry practically salivated at the sight of it. 

He nodded politely, then swept his hand towards Louis’ study questioningly. 

Lily put down her piping bag. “The master left early this morning, dear. He asked Geraldine to take the girls to school.” 

Harry frowned. Louis made a point of never being too busy to drive them. Felicite had tried to talk him out of it on the grounds that everybody else either walked or caught the bus, but he insisted. 

Harry glanced at the empty hallway as he thought. Louis’ calender was full today of meetings, various errands for the house and his book release. Harry had assumed he’d accompany him, though he wouldn’t be much help. 

“That reminds me! Mr. Payne called, that lovely chap Louis went to school with? He asked if you might be free for lunch today, and I told him yes on your behalf. He’ll be round at half eleven to pick you up.”

Harry turned back to Lily in alarm. Liam Payne had called to ask him to lunch? They’d barely spoken two words at his party, and one night of drunken revelry did not friends make. 

Perhaps that had changed. 

Lily turned away to place her piping bag in the sink, then glanced at him over her shoulder with a coy twist to her brows. “He’s quite handsome, isn’t he?”

Harry grimaced.    
  
She laughed and leant against the sink. “No need to make that face, Harold. I know you only have eyes for one man.”

Harry rolled his eyes and turned to walk away from the conversation. He had work to be done, if his day was going to be interrupted by a surprise lunch date. 

Lily’s laughter followed him down the hallway. 

 

🜾🜾🜾

 

“Have you been here before, Harry?” Liam asked over his menu. 

Harry shifted in his seat a little and pursed his lips. He shook his head, squinting at the entres. 

Mr. Payne had arrived exactly when he’d said he would with a loud knock on the door and a merry attitude, and Harry had found himself out the door and into his shiny automobile before he could grab his sunhat. 

The ride had been as painfully awkward as Harry had guessed it would be, with Liam asking tedious questions and Harry either nodding or shaking his head. 

It had hardly been the most fascinating of conversations, and Harry was dying with curiosity. Surely a man as important and busy as Liam Payne didn’t have time to ask acquaintances to lunch with no ulterior motive. 

Harry didn’t have much hope he’d enjoy himself; the restaurant was the stuffy type of fancy that high society had apparently become in Harry’s absence, and the cost of the menu items was extravagant to say the least. 

Harry shifted in his chair again. There was no Louis here to tell him to stop fidgeting. 

“So, Harry,” Liam said, folding his menu and tucking it under his arm. Harry watched the action with mild horror; he hadn’t even looked at the main courses yet. “I’m guessing you’re wondering why I invited you? Not that we’re not friends,” he looked appalled at the implication, and Harry tried to smother a smile, “but there was actually something I wanted to speak to you about, after seeing you and Louis at my party.”

Harry paled. It dawned on him why Liam had dragged him to this place, and all of a sudden he wished the ground to open up and swallow him. He was about to be questioned on his intentions by one of Louis’ closest friends, and he’d always been the  _ worst  _ liar. Would Louis want him to be honest with Liam? Would be prefer to keep their....intimacy private? How was Harry supposed to pretend he had a healthy interest in Louis rather than an obsessive and incredibly inappropriate one?

He scrambled to find his pen before Liam could say another word. He pulled it out, along with one of his cards, and scribbled a note out under the mans’ confused gaze. 

He presented it to Liam in a slightly calmer manner, making an attempt to not seem  _ too  _ insane. 

Liam read the note aloud, much to Harry’s surprise. 

“I hope you don’t find my affections towards my employer and your friend too offensive, and I would thank you not to tell him of the depths of my feelings. Louis is in a rather delicate spot at the moment, with his mother being unwell and the girls to look after and his book to—Harry,” he interrupted, looking up from the note with a deep frown. “I must confess, I’m quite confused. You...have feelings for Louis?”

Harry just stared at him with wide, frozen eyes. 

Liam glanced between him and the note. “This wasn’t what I was going to talk to you about, but—would you like to talk about this?”

Harry shook his head slowly. 

He could tell Liam was torn between trying to look sympathetic and trying not to laugh, and Harry had never regretted leaving his nice, warm castle more in his very long life. 

Liam placed the note down gently. “If it’s any consolation, I’m quite sure he admires you. I can’t say to what extent,” he put his hands up, then smiled, “but he was certainly more carefree the night you came with us dancing than I’d seen him in a good long while.”

Harry folded his hands in his lap and stared at them, trying not to overthink Liam’s implication. Louis had told him himself, with his own words, with his touch and his gaze, that Harry’s affections weren’t completely one sided.   
  
It didn’t make it any easier to believe, hearing it from someone else. 

Then, Harry met Liam’s eyes. He tilted his head to the side and crossed one hand over the other. 

Liam frowned at the action, then his eyes lit up. “Oh! You’re asking what I was going to say?”

Harry nodded, lips twitching upwards at Liam’s childlike excitement at being able to understand him. 

“Well, it's rather a long story. Perhaps we should order?” 

He’d already signalled for a staff member before Harry could protest. Harry hastily flipped through the menu while Liam rattled off his order, then under the waiter’s expectant gaze he pointed to an item at random. 

“The beef lasagne? Great choice, sir,” the waiter said. Harry frowned. His chest tightened a little at the man’s blank stare and monotone compliment. His skin itched under his vest, swathes of memories flooding his mind from his years as king being addressed by mindless subjects. Then, the man turned away and fumbled with the menus a little, and the illusion was broken. Harry blinked and let out the breath he’d been holding. 

“Are you alright?” Liam asked. 

Harry smiled and nodded. As easily as he’d wished to be back in his castle a minute ago, it only took that one moment to remind him how badly he  _ didn’t _ want that. 

Harry and Liam passed the time before their food came trying to find something— _ anything— _ that they had in common. Liam’s knowledge of philosophy was shaky at best, and Harry had missed out on a formal education from this era (or any era), and Liam’s avid interest in music went above Harry’s head. Eventually they settled on swapping stories about Louis’ sisters, and were giggling about Charlotte’s early childhood obsession with eating bark when their food arrived. 

Harry had only just raised his fork to his mouth when Liam spoke. “Harry, it’s been truly wonderful conserving with you. It’s put my mind to ease.”   
  
Harry lowered his fork with a frown.    
  
Liam fiddled with his napkin before continuing. “My nephew was in an accident recently, and I’ve just heard from my sister that the doctors say he won’t ever recover his voice fully. He’s only five, and he hasn’t been taking it well. I was wondering if you could consider perhaps… Meeting with him, and teaching him some of your gestures?”    
  
Harry put his fork down gently and reached his hand across the table to still Liam’s fidgeting fingers. Liam looked up at him hopefully, and Harry nodded. He didn’t think he had much wisdom to share, but he would never say no to a child in pain. 

Liam’s eyes lit up.

“Oh, thank you, Harry! It would mean so much to him, I’m sure. And Ruth has been so beside herself, she was convinced that Oscar had been cursed or some other bollocks.”   
  
Harry raised his eyebrows at Liam’s sudden anger.    
  
Liam seemed to mistake his surprise for agreement. “I know! What utter garbage. You’re doing just fine for yourself! You’ve a job and–”

Harry held a hand up to stop him. 

Liam looked horrified. “Oh, I’m so sorry, that must have sounded so rude! See, this is why I need your help.”

Harry pursed his lips to avoid smiling. Even when he was putting his foot in it, there was something truly endearing about Liam Payne. 

He pointed to Liam’s dish with raised eyebrows, just to watch the way he laughed when he caught Harry’s meaning.    
  
“Our food’s gone cold, you’re quite right,” he said, sticking a finger into Harry’s lasagne in a display of blatant disrespect. 

Harry whacked Liam’s hand away with his fork then grinned along with him. They finished their luke-warm meals in good spirits; Liam seemed glad to be rid of the weight on his chest, and Harry was just glad to have made a friend. 

By the time Liam dropped Harry back off at the house, armed with plans to meet with little Oscar a week from Monday, it was early afternoon. And Louis was still out. 

Harry went to find Geraldine.

She was in the kitchen with Lily polishing the silverware. Harry took a heavy seat across from her and picked up a spoon and a cloth, already feeling himself relax at Lily’s gentle humming along to the song on the radio as she mixed some batter. 

“You look sad, dear,” Geraldine commented, studying her reflection in a vase critically. “Lily, my love, did he look this sad before Mr. Payne whisked him away?”

Lily looked him over. Harry tried to lift his face under her scrutiny, but she just tsked. 

“No, darling, he didn’t. Are we going to have to send Mr. Payne a scathing telegram? Such a shame, I like that boy.” She moved to put her wooden spoon down, and Harry put his face in his hands, shoulders shaking with silent laughter. 

“Ah! See, he’s smiling again. Can’t be too bad,” Geraldine said to Lily. 

Harry lifted his face and tried to glare at them. He couldn’t quite manage to school his features, so the effect was most definitely ruined. 

Geraldine put her polishing down gently, giving Harry her full attention. “Would you like to tell us what’s got you so forlorn, hm? Or just pretend to scowl at us like a naughty schoolboy?”

If that had been a real option, Harry would have been tempted to choose it. Instead, he sighed and leaned back in his chair. 

He would love to tell them what was wrong, truly; in his time with Louis, they’d become his dearest friends. The only proble was that he wasn’t entirely sure he  _ knew _ what was wrong. 

So, he started with the obvious. 

He pointed towards Louis’ study, then patted his chest and pouted. 

Lily sighed wistfully. “Ah, young love! Do you remember the days when we couldn’t spend an hour apart, Gerry?”

Geraldine sniffed. “Absolutely not, I’ve been nothing but collected and practical since I’ve known you.”    
  
Lily laughed loudly.

Geraldine's face cracked, and she laughed too. “Is that really all it is, Harry? The pining weighing on your soul? Don’t give me that look, it couldn’t be more obvious. Mistress Charlotte and I have a pool going as to when you’re going to finally break, get down on your knees, and wildly proclaim your undying love for him.”

Harry wasn’t scowling before when she’d accused him of doing so, he truly wasn’t. But he certainly was now. 

“Oh, be gentle, dear,” Lily tutted, coming over to take a seat next to Harry. She peeled his hand off the table and patted it soothingly. “There’s nothing to be so angry about, darling. We’re all on your side. You’re the closest anyone’s ever come to stealing the masters heart, and Lord knows he deserves  someone to give him theirs.” She leaned closer, and Harry’s scowl was replaced by a pinched brow. “Between you and me, I think you’re very good for him. We were all lucky that you turned up when you did. He doesn’t like to admit it, with how he takes care of everyone all the time, but Louis needs someone to take care of him, too. And you do that so well, Harry.”

Harry looked between her and Geraldine, overcome with emotion. 

“I don’t know why you even let me try, love, you’re so much better at that than I am,” Geraldine commented, picking up her polishing cloth again. Harry could tell that despite all appearances, she’d been just as moved by Lily’s words as he was. It was all in the glassiness of her eyes and the way she looked so focused on her work, suddenly. 

Harry turned back to Lily. She’d set his mind at rest regarding how welcome his affections would be in the household, but there was more than that on his mind.

He nodded his head towards Louis’ office again, then he traced his finger in a circle, then raised it to his lips. 

Lily gasped.

Geraldine looked up. “What is it?”   
  
Lily turned to her with a grin. “Harry says he and the master have  _ kissed.” _

Harry ducked his head, biting his lip to control his smile. 

“Oh, Harry, you couldn’t have waited one more week? That’s ten pounds you’ve cost me,” Geraldine joked. 

Harry rolled his eyes at her, then turned back to Lily. He put his hand over hers, quieting her celebration. 

He shook his head shyly, then pointed to himself. He dashed a hand through the air, then sat back. 

“Wait, I’m not sure I understand, Harry. Are you saying you didn’t like it?” 

Harry shook his head immediately, then paused. He winced. 

Geraldine put her polishing down once again. “Oh, I know that look,” she said, tilting her head to the side. 

Harry met her gaze, then copied the action. 

Lily looked between them, a crease in her brow. “What look is it?”

Geraldine smiled at her. “It’s the look of someone who doesn’t quite understand desire, sweetheart. Harry, not to be indelicate, but have you ever…?”

Harry frowned. He shook his head slowly. In a thousand years, he’d never wanted to. Not even before that, when he was a boy on the edge of manhood and everyone around him was going mad with lust. His mother had always told him he was just sensible, and he’d never thought himself different from others because of it. The thing that made him different was the fact that he could only see himself making a life with a man, marrying a man, falling in love with a man. It had never, not ever, been about anything  _ carnal.  _

But the fuzziness in his chest, the way his stomach had dropped when he and Louis had kissed last night—it was everything he’d never wanted before, and it was confusing to say the least. 

Geraldine watched him carefully. She was always watching, shrewd and cunning but never unkind. Harry was grateful to have her here, just as grateful as he was to have Lily.

“It’s alright to be confused, Harry. You don’t have to do anything you dont think is right, and you certainly don’t have to lie with him to love him,” she said, a forcefulness to her words that Harry was taken aback by. 

Lily made a noise of understanding next to him. 

“He’s like you then, Gerry? An Artemis amongst the gods?   
  
Harry looked between Lily and Geraldine, waiting for an answer. 

“I wouldn’t presume to know Harry’s thoughts and feelings, Lily,” Geraldine said delicately. “But if he should ever need to talk anything through—anything at all—he can come to me.” The last part she directed at Harry with a steady gaze. 

Harry nodded in thanks, then picked up his polishing. Lily pressed a kiss to his cheek before going back to her batter, and they whiled away the afternoon with singalongs and polished silver. 

 

🜾🜾🜾

 

Harry sat on his bed and stared at the manuscript. He hadn’t touched it all day, but Geraldine had left to pick the girls up from school and Lily had shooed him out of the kitchen to get dinner started, so he didn’t have anything else to distract him. 

He picked up the stack of pages like one might pick up a newborn baby, then placed them in his lap. It didn’t seem right to read it in his room, so Harry took the pages with him downstairs and settled in at Louis’ desk. 

There wasn’t any other reason Louis might have left this for him but to read it, so. Harry turned to the first page. 

And he read. 

He’d only made it to the fourth chapter by the time the girls arrived home, but he was already so in love with it. Louis had taken the little girl from his first two books, a young thing so excited to explore the world, and he’d given her an adventure that challenged her and pushed her to be brave. It was the next step in the quest to find Doris’ long lost twin brother Ernest, who’d been taken by the very same magical world that Doris had. There was a sadness and a determination about it that hadn’t been as present in the first two, but it was charming nonetheless. He knew already that Daisy and Phoebe would love it, but he couldn’t help but wonder about Louis’ inspiration. 

“Harry, are you coming to have some afternoon tea?” Felicite asked from the doorway. “Charlotte will be home any minute with news of her latest interview.”

Harry smiled and set aside the manuscript, making sure to mark his place with a spare piece of paper. He followed her to the drawing room and greeted the twins, asking about their days. They started prattling off all they’d learned, as they usually did, and Harry smiled and nodded as Geraldine poured them all tea. 

Soon enough Charlotte arrived home. She’d barely taken her coat off before the other girls started bombarding her with questions. Harry just offered her a cup of tea. 

“This is why you’re my favourite,” she said, ignoring the girls in favour of accepting the cup and collapsing onto the lounge to Harry’s left. Geraldine made an offended noise around her biscuit. 

Lottie laughed at her, the waved her hand towards her sisters. “You can stop pestering me, I got the job.”   
  
Harry grinned and nudged her shoulder proudly. Felicite started cheering, and the twins joined in raucously.

“What are we celebrating?” came a voice from the doorway. Harry whipped his head around to see Louis standing there, leaning against the wall and looking so dashing in his suit. Harry’s head had been a mess all day, emotions rocketing all over the place, but seeing Louis smiling at his family seemed to calm his racing heart. Maybe Lily was right; he  _ was _ just an embarrassing mess of a man who couldn’t go an hour without the object of his affections. 

It was hardly Kingly. 

But he didn’t much care. 

“Oh, nothing,” Lottie answered, snapping Harry out of his daze. “Only the news that I got the job I interviewed for today.”    
  
Louis’ face lit up. “Is that the one–”

“At Claires? The curatorial position in their ladies department? It is indeed,” Lottie preened. 

“Charlotte, I’m so happy for you.” Louis made his way over to hug her from behind the lounge. “You deserve it.”   
  
She laughed and leaned into his hold. “Thank you.”   
  
Louis released her with one final squeeze, then rounded the couch to greet his other sisters with a hug. “How was school, loves? I’m sorry I couldn’t drive you today.”

“It’s okay, Louis. Geraldine's a better driver anyway,” Felicite answered, taking a sip of her tea as Louis gasped in fake offence. 

Geraldine didn’t even look up from her needlework. 

Harry smiled at the antics as he poured Louis a cup of tea, adding a dash of milk. He tugged on Louis sleeve to get his attention, then offered him the cup. 

Louis’ face changed when he turned to Harry. It was almost imperceptible, and Harry only noticed because he was looking for it; a softening around the edges, like he was relaxing, like he was finally warm after having been cold. 

He accepted the tea with delicate hands, then parked himself on the couch on Harry’s right side. 

“Hi, love,” he said softly, leaning close enough that Harry knew it was just for him. Harry smiled at him, then darted forwards to press a kiss to his cheek. 

Louis paused with his teacup halfway to his mouth to gawk at him. Harry just shrugged shyly. 

Louis looked around the room nervously, then relaxed when he noticed nobody was paying them any mind. Harry frowned at the action, then tapped Louis leg. 

“I’m sorry, you just surprised me, is all,” Louis answered. He took a sip of his tea, and Harry shifted away from him a little. 

He’d been so caught up in how glad he’d felt to have things make sense again, he hadn’t even considered the possibility that Louis might not want his sisters to know. 

But Louis didn’t let him get too far. He wrapped a hand around Harry’s waist to pull him back in, leaned in to Harry’s side to whisper in his ear. “Next time, kiss me properly.”

Harry blushed. 

“Master Louis, do tell us how your meetings went today,” Geraldine interrupted. She looked the picture of innocent, but Harry knew she’d been watching them.

Louis waved her off with the hand his cup was in, still holding Harry close. “Fine, fine. Much too boring for me to drone on about with my favourite girls.” 

“And Harry!” Phoebe piped up. 

Harry reached across the table to pinch her cheek, smiling as she ducked away and loudly protested.    
  
“Yes, Pheebs, and Harry.” Louis rubbed his thumb against Harry’s shirt, touch burning through the fabric to his hip.    
  
Harry grinned into his tea. 

 

🜾🜾🜾

 

Harry turned another page. He was sitting in the armchair in front of the fire in Louis’ study, the room filled with the sounds of Louis’ typewriter and the soft crooning of his favourite record. They'd retired here after dinner through some unspoken agreement, and Harry had passed the last few hours devouring Louis’ novel. 

He hadn't asked what Harry thought of it just yet, but the searching glances Harry kept intercepting told him he was dying to know.

Harry had just gotten up to the part where Louis had written in Pheobe’s Felticat when something hit him in the side of the head. 

He reeled, then glanced down at the paper in his lap folded into the shape of a bird. He picked it up gently, then snuck a glance at Louis. He still looked engrossed in his work, and if Harry hadn't known every inch of his face so well he wouldn't have been able to spot the slight twist to his mouth. 

Harry huffed and smiled, then unfolded the paper. 

_ How was your day?  _

Harry pulled his pen out from his breast pocket and uncapped it theatrically. He ignored the small giggle from Louis’ direction, and wrote a few neat lines underneath Louis’ brilliant cursive.

He folded the bird back up as best he could, then launched it back at Louis. 

It landed right on his desk, a few inches from his hand. 

Louis sent him a secret smile then picked it up. 

Harry watched as he read what he'd written— _ Mr. Payne took me out to lunch to ask if I could meet with his nephew, who was recently been rendered mute. I'm not sure what he expects me to do for him, but I told him I would help however I could. Other than that, I mostly just lazed about and missed you terribly.  _

Louis snorted once he'd reached the end. He put the note down, then rested his hand on his chin as he studied Harry. “It was very nice of you to agree to help Oscar, I didn't know the details of his injuries.” He raised the note and pointed at Harry's last passage, not waiting for a response to his first comment. “And somehow, I can't imagine you lazing about.”

Harry raised his eyebrows and reclined in the chair in a regal sprawl he'd had centuries to perfect. 

Louis batted his eyelashes at him. “It doesn't count as lazing unless you do it in a bed, darling.”

Harry choked. He felt his face turn red a little—not just from Louis’ innuendo but also from the way he'd said it, so silky smooth. 

Louis turned back to the note for a second, scribbling out a third passage. He launched the bird at Harry, who managed to catch it before it dovetailed into the fire. 

He unfolded it quickly, then grinned. 

_ Can I come over there?  _

He looked over his shoulder at Louis, the sheepishly hopeful look on his face, and nodded. 

Louis stood slowly, like he was giving Harry time to change his mind.   
  
Harry watched him approach steadily. When Louis reached the armchair next to Harry, he leaned his arms on it and dropped another folded paper bird onto the seat.   
  
“Oops, guess this one’s taken,” he grinned.

Harry did his best not to be incredibly charmed. It didn’t work at all. 

He leaned back in the chair and placed Louis’ manuscript on the small table next to him, then opened his arms. 

Louis studied him for a moment with stars in his eyes, then he shook his head. 

“I’ve changed my mind,” he announced grandly, taking Harry’s hands and pulling him up. “Let’s go to bed instead.”

Harry gulped, but Louis had already turned towards the door. Harry stumbled after him, trying to calm his sudden nerves.    
  
It was just Louis. There was nothing to be scared of. 

Louis came to a stop when he reached the stairs. He stepped onto the first one then turned to face Harry eye to eye. It was strange to have to look up at Louis, even just a little. 

“Are you alright? We don’t have to, I want you to know that.”

Harry frowned, then flicked his eyes to the side as he thought. He looked back up at Louis after a moment, then signed,  _ can we talk about it? _

Louis nodded. “Of course,” he whispered, then cleared his throat. He turned to walk up the stairs, and Harry followed. He was already able to breathe much easier, just from that small bit of reassurance.  _ Of course,  _ Louis said. Of course he would listen to Harry, and care about him enough to want him to be comfortable. If only his stomach could learn that, and his pounding heart. 

Louis turned left once they’d reached the top of the stairs, glancing over his shoulder to make sure Harry was following.    
  
And Harry  _ was  _ following. He was following Louis somewhere he’d never been before, in a very literal sense; his bedroom. 

Harry couldn’t say he’d given much thought to what Louis’ room might look like, but if he had he would have imagined something like this. The walls were a soft white, except the wall behind his bed, which was a brilliant red. The ceilings and the floors were marked by an intricate lace pattern in the wallpaper, making the room seem like an enlarged decorative box. There was a desk beneath the window piled high with all sorts of memorabilia that Harry itched to spend hours exploring, but overall the room was very neat. 

Louis passed him on his way to the desk, pulling out a sheet of paper and a pen from one of the drawers. He turned back towards Harry and made his way back over to him with a determined expression. Harry was about to reach out for him, perhaps take the pen and paper, but Louis did something unexpected before he could; he dropped to the ground. 

Harry gasped and took a step backwards, and Louis smiled crookedly up at him as he organised himself on the floor, sitting cross-legged.  
  
“It’s not as comfortable down here as on my bed, I think that’s obvious, but you wanted us to talk, so…”

He blinked up at Harry, then offered him the pen. 

Harry wrinkled his nose as he took a seat across from Louis. He wasn’t a stranger to the concept, but there was something so jarring about seeing Louis sitting on the floor—Louis, who always strove to be put-together and grown up. Perhaps he’d grown up a little too fast. 

Harry took the pen hesitantly, then the paper. He placed it on the ground in front of him and glared at it. He truly, honestly, had no idea where to start.   
  
“Shall I go first, then?” Louis interrupted, with a mixture of softness and cheek that was unique to him alone. 

Harry nodded, and Louis pursed his lips.   
  
“Well,” he started, “I’ve always hated socks? Ever since I was a boy, mother had to bribe me into wearing them. Don’t give me that look! They make my feet itchy, I can’t stand them.”

Harry managed to wrangle his smile into something resembling sympathy for Louis’ plight. He was glad Louis had started with something simple to put Harry’s fears to bed. He remembered what Lily had said, about Louis taking care of people; he took care of Harry so well. 

But that wasn’t all Lily had said. 

Harry thought about what he was going to say in response as he reached a hand over to Louis slow enough for him to roll his eyes. He clasped Louis’ shoe and pulled Louis’ leg towards himself just as slowly, Louis giggling as he resituated himself with his foot in Harry’s hold. 

Harry placed the shoe in his lap and began untying the laces methodically. Louis stopped giggling. Harry looked up at him as he pulled the shoe off his foot to find a rather dazed expression on his face. Harry could feel his dimples carve themselves into his cheeks, setting aside the shoe. He ran his fingers up Louis’ calf, biting his lip as he tried to find the end of Louis’ sock. Louis’ breath hitched as he pulled the material down and off his foot, and Harry couldn’t resist leaning down to press a kiss to Louis’ now-bare ankle. 

“Um,” Louis choked. “I’m not sure it–well, smells the best, down there?” Louis stuttered, rosy-cheeked under Harry’s very innocent ministrations. Harry looked up at him and blinked a few times, then made a point of pressing his nose to Louis’ not-at-all smelly foot. Well, it was a little bit tangy from being cooped up all day, but. Harry really didn’t mind. He sat back up after a moment and pointed to Louis’ other leg expectantly. 

“No, thank you,” Louis said, wide-eyed and achingly polite. Harry frowned and tilted his head to the side. 

Louis laughed breathlessly and licked his lips before answering. “That was lovely, darling, but I’m worried that if you do that again my brain will leak out of my ears and I won’t get to read what you wanted to say.”

Harry shook his head with a grin and picked up the pen again. He was still holding Louis’ left foot hostage, so the angle for writing was a little awkward. 

He spent several long moments blinking down at the blank piece of paper before he sighed and started writing. 

_ Ask me something.  _

Louis twisted his head as he read the words upside down, then made a considering noise. 

“What’s your favourite flower?”   
  
Harry rolled his eyes.    
  
_ Peonys,  _ he wrote,  _ ask me something real.  _

Louis nudged his hip with his foot, then sighed. “Are you sure?”   
  
Harry met his gaze evenly, then nodded. 

Louis leant forwards, trapping him with his eyes. “Can you see a future here? With me?”

Harry frowned in alarm. He scribbled out his answer right away. 

_ There’s nothing I can see more clearly than that.  _

Louis made a small noise, then covered it up with a cough. “Good, okay,” he croaked.    
  
Harry tapped the sole of Louis’ foot after a few moments of silence.  _ Ask another.  _

Louis didn’t look at him, this time.    
  
“What’s your last name? Your  _ real  _ last name, I saw how you panicked and wrote ‘Styles’ when I first asked you that.”    
  
Harry relaxed his shoulders on an exhale. He took a second to think of how honest he was about to be, rubbing a thumb into the arch of Louis’ foot as he did. 

Then, he looked up at Louis. Louis met his gaze, gentle yet defiant. It was the look of someone who knew they’d been lied to by someone they–

–cared about. 

Harry shook his head. 

“You won’t tell me, or you don’t have one?” Louis clarified lowly, foot twitching in Harry’s hold. 

Harry held two fingers up. 

Louis took a deep breath, then relaxed. “Alright. Thank you.”

Harry shook his head again. His secrets were Louis’ to keep, he knew that now. There was nothing he wouldn’t tell him, if he only knew how. 

Harry tapped Louis’ ankle again, and Louis huffed a soft laugh. 

“I’m running out of questions that I can stand to ask you,” he said, fidgeting with his hair. 

Harry tilted his head to the side. Louis watched him for a moment, then smiled mischievously. 

“Actually, I do have a few more.” Louis leant forwards, all the way forwards. He crawled over the paper and the pen and rearranged himself hovering above Harry’s lap. His hands rested on Harry’s shoulders, warm through Harry’s layers of clothes, and Harry’s grip still circled his left ankle as he blinked up at him. “Is this okay?”

A smile bloomed across Harry’s face. He nodded. 

Louis smiled back. He settled into Harry’s lap properly, shifting until his knees were either side of Harry’s hips. Harry’s spare hand came up to rest on Louis’ waist to steady him. 

Louis tapped his fingers against Harry’s shoulders, looking very pleased with his new position. Then, he leaned forwards. If Harry’s breath hadn’t already left him at having Louis  _ in his lap,  _ then it would have left him just then. 

“How about this?” Louis asked, so close Harry could feel his breath on his cheek, sweet from the blueberry tart he’d had for desert. 

Harry closed the gap as his answer, claiming Louis’ lips with his own. This time, he wasn’t going to ruin it with his silly paranoias. The man he loved was right here, and Harry could have this if he stopped overthinking it.    
  
Louis moaned into the kiss, bringing his hands up to fist in Harry’s hair and caress his neck. Harry felt so warm all over, but he pulled Louis closer anyway. This was already their fifth kiss, but it still felt so new, so wonderful. 

Until Louis started wriggling in his lap. Harry pulled back, eyes wide at the feeling of Louis’ hardness pressed against his own. He moaned without meaning to, then squeezed his eyes shut. 

Louis stopped moving. He kissed Harry’s cheek softly, then moved to whisper in his ear, “Is  _ this  _ okay?” as his hand travelled south towards Harry’s belt. 

Harry caught his wrist. He didn’t open his eyes, for fear of what he might see on Louis’ face. He’d told himself he wasn’t going to do this, but–

He wasn’t ready. Not yet.

Louis made a soft noise, then twisted his hand in Harry’s grip. Harry thought for a second he was going to pull away but then he tangled their fingers together instead. 

“Thank you,” Louis whispered. He kissed Harry’s nose, then his cheeks. Every soft press of lips to his skin relaxed Harry more and more, until he opened his eyes with a sheepish expression.   
  
“None of that,” Louis said, suddenly fierce. He looked brilliant in that moment, shadows cast across his face from the soft electric light and a fire in his eyes. “I asked, and you answered, yeah?”

Harry pressed his lips together. He didn’t mean for tears to well in his eyes, and he hated that they were. But Louis just wrapped an arm around him and held him close. This time, when their groins pressed together (far less aroused than last time, but still enough to notice) Harry didn’t feel scared. He wriggled his way into Louis’ neck, then pressed his nose to his skin. Louis answered by kissing his hair, squeezing their still-joined fingers. 

“Will you sleep with me tonight? Just sleeping,” Louis asked,    
  
Harry pulled back. He smiled and nodded, then darted forwards to kiss him again, just for a moment. Louis laughed softly as he pulled away from Harry’s lap.

But Harry reached forward to grab his right shoe before he could get too far. 

Louis looked between his grip and his face with raised eyebrows, and Harry raised his back challengingly. 

He started to untie the lace. 

“Fine! I submit,” Louis cried, falling backwards onto the floor and shifting his leg so Harry had easier access. Harry nodded his thanks as he pulled the shoe off, flinging it in the direction the other had gone. Louis laughed as it thumped against the wardrobe on the other side of the room. “You’re picking that up tomorrow, you menace.”

Harry shrugged and pulled Louis’ sock off. He threw it over to the shoe, just to see the outrage on Louis’ face.    
  
Then, he bent forwards and kissed Louis’ ankle, like he’d done for the other foot. He couldn’t help it; Louis had wonderful ankles. 

It wasn’t really something he’d ever thought to admire on anyone else, but. There they were. 

He tapped Louis’ calf as he pulled back.  _ All done.  _

Louis nudged his belly with his toe in response, then pulled his foot from Harry’s hold. “Enough of that, love, if I let you undress me at that pace we won’t get a wink of sleep.”

Harry rolled his eyes and pushed himself to a standing position as Louis did the same. He started unbuttoning his shirt, and Louis stepped around him to the wardrobe. He pulled the doors open and rifled through it for a moment before speaking. 

“Would you like to–oh,” Louis’ words cut off when he turned to look at Harry, who’d managed to remove his vest, shirt, and undershirt while Louis was staring at his clothes. Harry raised his eyebrows questioningly, and Louis gulped. “Borrow. Would you like to borrow some nightclothes.”

Harry nodded and started unbuckling his belt. He’d slept naked for a thousand years in his castle, but he’d gotten into the habit of wearing nightclothes recently, what with all the children around who were determined to interrupt his sleep. 

Louis whirled back around and started rooting through one of the drawers, and Harry frowned at him as he stepped out of his trousers. What was making him so uncomfor–

Oh. Harry blushed a little, then busied himself folding his clothes neatly. Louis turned around after a few moments with a striped linen shirt and trousers combination similar to the one Harry wore. This one sure to be smaller on him, if it was Louis’, but he appreciated the gesture. 

Harry walked forwards with a grateful smile to accept the clothes, and Louis watched him approach steadily. It seemed he’d managed to gather himself, though he was still a little breathless when Harry reached him. 

He took the clothes gently, then kissed Louis’ cheek in thanks. His skin itched from the small amount of stubble that had grown since he’d last shaved, and it wasn’t an unwelcome feeling.   
  
Louis caught him by the shoulders before he could turn away. 

“You’re stunningly beautiful, Harry,” he announced, as if he was making the most important argument in a heated debate. “And you take my breath away every day."   


Harry shuffled his feet and stared at the bundle of clothes in his hands. He lifted his hand to his chin, then lowered it with the palm facing up. 

Louis’ shoulders released some of their tension, and it only took one blink for his face to melt back in to an expression Harry was beginning to suspect was fond. “You’re welcome.”

Then, he released Harry’s shoulders and turned back to his wardrobe. 

Harry pulled the borrowed sleeping shirt and trousers on, surprised that they weren’t too small for him. Sure, they were a little tighter than he was used to, but they were comfortable and soft enough that he didn’t mind. He pulled back the cover as he waited for Louis to get changed, settling in to the bed and trying not to gawk at all the lovely skin on display. Louis pulled his shirt over his shoulders and fiddled with the buttons for a moment before giving up. He turned to face Harry with his hands on his hips. 

“Would you mind terribly if I don’t wear a shirt? I hate these things.” He plucked the collar away from his neck. 

Harry got distracted for a moment staring at Louis’ collarbone, then he shook himself off. In answer to his question, he simply started unbuttoning his own shirt. 

Louis laughed softly and put the shirt back in its drawer, then flicked the light off before crawling into bed beside him. Harry dropped his shirt onto the floor beside the bed then fidgeted for a moment as Louis got comfortable, itching to reach out and touch. 

After a few moments, Louis sighed. “Harry, for God’s sake, come here.” He opened his arms, and Harry couldn’t see his expression in the darkness but he was sure it was exasperated. 

Harry smiled nonetheless and shifted into Louis’ waiting arms. He put a hand on Louis’ chest experimentally, then when Louis’ only hummed soft note he placed his head on his breastbone. He could hear Louis’ heartbeat, now, and feel the movement of his chest beneath his hand. His skin was as soft and warm as the rest of him, and Harry found himself lulled to sleep almost immediately. 

A thousand years since he’d slept in someone’s arms. How he’d been missing out, all that time. 

“Goodnight, sweetheart,” Louis whispered, and Harry turned to place a kiss over his heart before slumber claimed him. 

 

🜾🜾🜾

 

This time, Harry was ready for the dream. He knew what it was when he found himself in it, and through the blood rushing through his ears he listened to the sounds around him. He looked about as he did, taking in all of his subjects, the band playing the same song he’d heard a million times, the robotic way they danced and celebrated. He recognised this scene at once as the Yuletide fete that happened every year to mark the Winter Solstice and the coming of Spring. There was apple bobbing and a meat roasting and a bonfire in the middle of it all, and Harry was expected to sing a Yuletide hymn for the occasion. 

He looked down at his clothes and was surprised to find he was wearing the same striped nightclothes he’d gone to sleep in.   
  
“Are you ready for your song, master?” 

Harry turned to see Jean standing to his right, smoothing a hand down his waistcoat. Harry was filled with anger at the sight.   
  
He walked away from Jean impatiently, pushing his way through the crowd and making for the castle in the distance. It was a bit of a walk from the village, but he couldn’t stay here a second longer. Not with a crowd of his people waiting for him to sing, and no voice with which to do so. 

The scene changed in an instant, like it had obeyed his command. He was in his bedroom, as always, and the world glass was shining brightly in the moonlight. 

“Harry, what is this place?” 

Harry sighed. Louis stood behind him, wearing the same outfit he’d worn the first time Harry had set eyes on him. 

He looked so real, and so confused. All part of the illusion, Harry guessed. 

He ignored him like he’d done Jean, and turned to leave the room. But Louis followed him, all the way down the hallway. 

“Harry, wait! Come back!”

Harry pushed open the doors of the library forcefully, then marched towards the row that he needed. The book was still sitting there on its pedestal, right where he’d left it. He stared down at the page, but it was blank. He flipped to the next, then another, as horror slowly crept up his spine. Footsteps approached him slowly, then a hand settled on his shoulder, calming his frantic movements. There was nothing to be done, anyway. The book was blank.  
  
“Darling, please,” Louis said, reaching a hand up to turn his cheek towards him. “Tell me what’s going on.”

Harry paused. He took Louis in, from his head to his toes. He seemed so real,  _ too  _ real. There was no way Louis could be in his dream, so this was some kind of trap, some kind of perverted message, like all the rest had been. 

But he couldn’t bring himself to deny Louis anything, not even when he knew he was being fooled.    
  
He turned his head to kiss Louis’ palm, then pulled away from his hold. He lifted the book up, and turned it towards Louis.

“This is important?” he asked, running a finger down the page. “Why is it blank? Should we write in it?”

Harry stilled. Of course. It was blank so Harry could  _ write in it. _

He grinned and darted forwards to kiss Louis, trying to tell him with his lips how brilliant he was. Even when he was a figment of a dream from a spell, he was so brilliant. 

Harry pulled back after a moment and took Louis’ hand. This time, he marched with purpose and with his man. His bedroom looked different from a moment ago when they entered it, like it had aged a hundred years while they’d been gone. Moss sprung up on the bed frame, and vines crawled in through the window. Yet, he could still hear the Yuletide celebration in the distance.    
  
Harry turned towards the world glass, and let out a sigh of relief. Louis’ study looked exactly the same, so clear that it seemed you could simply walk into it. 

Louis let go of his hand next to him and stepped closer.   
  
“This is my study,” he stated, sending a searching look over his shoulder. 

Harry nodded, then moved to stand next to him. 

He closed his eyes for a moment and prayed that what he was about to do would work. 

Then, he pulled his arm back and threw the book into the glass. 

It shattered at once, a million pieces spraying in every direction. Louis screamed, and Harry pulled him behind himself as the glass rained down around them. 

Harry held Louis close, pressed his nose into his hair, and willed himself awake. 

And then he was.

He lifted himself up unsteadily from Louis’ chest, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the soft light of dawn. He turned to look down as Louis, still fast asleep. He tried to make as little noise as possible as he pushed himself from the bed, but he was also in a hurry. 

He was so close to being happy, here, and yet at every turn there was something stopping him. Some of that was himself, but he wasn’t the only one to blame. He could see the dreams for what they were, now; another cruel test from the creature he’d summoned a thousand years ago, just another way to take his desires and twist them into something awful. He didn’t bother getting changed, he just pulled the door open and stepped out. 

He held his breath for a moment once he reached the study. Then, he pushed the door open and stepped inside. 

Everything looked just as it had through the glass in the dream, down to the papers on the desk, with only one thing out of place. 

Lying there, in the middle of the floor, was a big white book. 

Harry let out the breath he’d been holding and picked it up with haste. He rushed over to the desk and threw it down, fingers flying as he flicked through it. The book wasn’t blank anymore, every page was filled with spells and incantations and recipes and all sorts of magicks he’d forbid himself from exploring. He kept going until he found the page where the only spell he’d ever cast lay, then he stepped back. The page was still blank. 

He ran a hand through his hair as he thought. It made sense if Louis was right, and the creature had done this on purpose. It was almost cruel in how considerate it was; the same evil beast that had stolen his voice was making allowances to be summoned by a mute, how lovely! All was forgiven. 

Harry rifled through some papers on the desk until his fingers found a pen, then he brought the nib down to the page. 

He’d thought about this spell so little for so long, but he could still hear the words in his head. He closed his eyes and focused for a moment, then he started writing. He prayed he remembered them all correctly, and in order.

But he needn’t have worried. The second his pen finished the last letter, the book began to shake. The room lost all it’s warmth in an instant, and Harry took a step back. 

He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them, the spirit was there. It sat innocently on the book, watching him with it’s dead yellow eyes. Harry fought down the urge to strangle it, or throw it out the window. 

It was deceptively small, for something so powerful. 

“Good morning, Harry,” it said, voice like a bee sting, or gravel underfoot. “What can I do for you?”

Harry huffed and crossed his arms. He didn’t have the patience to play games. 

“Oh, are you angry with me, little one? After I’ve given you everything you asked for?” It rose onto two shaky legs, papery-white skin shifting as it moved.   
  
_ You’ve taken from me, too,  _ Harry thought. 

The creature smiled. Really, it was just exposing its teeth, but Harry guessed it was going for a smile.   
  
“Oh, I’ve taken, have I? Do you mean to imply that you’re unhappy with our trade?” 

Harry took a step back in alarm. This time, when it had spoken, the voice that came out wasn’t the same as before. It sounded so familiar, yet so alien. It was his  _ own  _ voice. 

“Do you want this back? Is that it?” the creature asked mockingly. 

Harry shook his head violently.  _ Keep it, I don’t need it here,  _ he thought, as aggressive and cutting as he could make his thoughts.  _ I just want you to leave me alone.  _

“And that’s all you want, is it?”

Harry paused. He hadn’t considered–but he shouldn’t, nothing the spirit gave came freely–and yet…

The spirit watched his conflict with a glint in his eye, then opened his mouth to speak. Before he could, there was a thump from the doorway.  

“Harry?”

Harry squeezed his eyes shut and hunched in on himself, like he could make Louis not be here if only he tried hard enough.

“You must be Louis.” Harry had been through a thousand years of loneliness, and it still hadn’t cut him as deeply as hearing his own voice form Louis’ name on someone else’s lips. Some _ thing  _ elses lips. 

Harry opened his eyes and stepped between the spirit and Louis, still not turning. He didn’t want to know what Louis’ face looked like, he just wanted it to not say another word to him. 

But Louis had other ideas. 

“I am Louis,” he said, voice coming closer. “And I’d really like for someone to tell me what on  _ earth  _ is going on.”

The creature turned its attention back to Harry, and he almost sighed in relief. “It doesn't surprise me you haven’t told him. After everything I tried to teach you, you’re still putting yourself first.”

Harry took a step back in shock, mind reeling. That wasn’t–that didn’t–he hadn’t told Louis because he didn’t know  _ how,  _ not because–

A hand pressed against his back. Harry jolted, then turned to face Louis finally. 

Louis’ jaw was set, and he looked about ready to fight something. But the object of his fury wasn’t Harry. 

“Look, I don’t know who or...what you are, but you’re in my home and you’re disrespecting my–my Harry, which I find unacceptable. Get out.”

Harry shivered. There was a silence in the room after Louis’ outburst, both Harry and the creature reeling after his words. Harry stared at him in wonder.

Then, the creature laughed. It was a strange thing to hear; Harry had never laughed like that, and yet it was  _ his _ voice. 

“I like this one, Harry. I understand why you’re so keen to keep him.” 

Louis raised his eyebrows, taken aback. 

The creature didn’t give either of them enough time to respond. His little feet pushed off the book, and then he was floating in the air, held aloft by some invisible force. 

Harry looked to Louis for a reaction, but he was surprised to find his expression unchanged. 

“So you summon me here, at great expense, to what? Ask me nicely to leave you alone? You, who I gave a castle, a crown, and then unmade my masterpiece for? What are you offering in return, hmm? I already have your lips, how about your ears?”

Harry balked. 

Louis turned to him in disbelief. “He...he has your lips?"   


Harry looked at him from the corner of his eye and nodded. Louis looked furious.   
  
“Who are you to take his voice?” he snapped, rounding on the creature.

The creature smiled its toothy smile again. “Who am I? I am older than the ley lines in this country, I’m older than your comprehension. And mortals have always called on me to do their bidding, to grant them their heart’s desires. Like this one,” he rounded on Harry, pointed at him accusingly with a withered finger. “ _ Make me a king,  _ he says, barely old enough to have any understanding of true power.  _ I want to rule.  _ And I gave it to him; I gave him a crown and a castle and empty-headed subjects to enact his every bidding.”   
  
Harry almost growled.  _ I never wanted power, I just wanted to help—to be loved, to give love, to– _

The creature waved its hand dismissively. “Of course you wanted power. Then once you had it, you grew tired of it. They always do,” he directed to Louis, like he was letting him in on a secret. “And they come crying to me to fix it, when all I’d ever done was give them what they asked for.”

Louis set his jaw and crossed his arms. “So do you fix it? Or do you not have the strength?”

The creature cocked its head. “I fix it, child. I have the strength of a thousand armies. I sent your  _ assistant  _ here to you at his request, didn’t I? I let him mock my gift, reject my work, and come back to the world he’d left.”

Harry shook his head.  _ You didn’t let me come back, not really. You’ve been haunting me with my mistakes like a petty gremlin.  _

“Then why won’t you leave us alone?” Louis asked heatedly. He stepped forwards, and Harry placed a hand on his shoulder to keep him back. “What more is there here for you? I’ve seen you in my dreams, pulling strings like the puppetmaster you think you are. What grand lesson is there to be taught, hm?”

Harry’s mind reeled. Louis had seen it in his dreams? Had he been plagued by those visions, as Harry had? Did that mean...he’d been real, a moment ago, and... he’d seen Harry’s castle, his world glass. Harry wobbled on his feet, bile rising in his throat.    
  
He’d thought he could do this, but he was wrong. 

The spirit smiled wickedly. “So sharp, for one so young. But I can’t tell you what you should be learning, child. The lesson isn't for you.”

Harry squeezed his eyes shut as it hit him. He felt Louis twist in his grip, turn to face him. 

“Harry?” 

_ You wanted me to put someone else first,  _ Harry thought, eyes snapping open to meet the spirit’s yellow-eyed gaze. 

It blinked at him. 

“Harry, are you okay?”

Harry turned to Louis as calm finally settled over him. It was so nice, to know what he needed to do after all this time of being uncertain. 

He tapped a finger against his heart, the lifted his shaky hand to Louis’ and traced a shape over his. Louis looked down at his finger in confusion, and Harry spared a moment to repeat the action. He traced a heart, lopsided and quick. Louis looked back up at him in alarm, then at the creature. 

_ I love you,  _ Harry had said. 

Then, he stepped back and looked at the spirit. 

_ Trade my life for hers. That’s what I want, it’s what I’m here for. They need her more than me. _

“Harry, what are you saying to it?” Louis asked. Harry didn’t know how he knew something terrible was about to happen. Perhaps he just knew Harry too well.    
  
The creature ignored Louis, watching Harry with sharp eyes. “Who,” it said. 

Harry closed his eyes and exhaled.  _ Johannah.  _

“Please, sweetheart, tell me what’s–” Louis said, hands coming up to frame Harry’s face frantically.    
  
Harry opened his eyes to look into Louis’ one last time, the perfect blue of them. From over Louis’ shoulder, he saw the spirit raise a hand, fingers poised. 

It snapped its fingers. 

And everything went white. 

 

🜾🜾🜾

 

“Do you ever think you’ll fall in love, Harry?” Gemma asked. 

It was well past their bedtime, and they had work to do tomorrow, helping wash all the linens in time for the visiting nobility about to take up residence in the West Wing. 

Mother would be angry if she caught them up talking, but Harry and Gemma had gotten good at being quiet when they talked late at night in the servants quarters. Someone snuffled from a few beds away, but no one stirred. 

Harry turned to face Gemma, studying her face in the thin moonlight. 

“I hope so,” he replied. “He’ll be a brave knight, as beautiful as Arthur and as kind as Guinevere, and he’ll save me from having to ever wash another sheet in my life.”

Gemma giggled, then sighed. “I’m serious, Harry.”

Harry closed his eyes and smiled. “So am I.”

 

🜾🜾🜾

 

Harry hadn’t expected being unmade to feel so… 

Well, to feel like nothing had changed at all.  He could still feel his body, his hands and legs and toes and the movement of his chest as he breathed.    
  
If he wanted to, he could open his eyes.    
  
That shouldn’t have been true. 

So, he did. And at first, all he saw was white. Then he blinked and brought a heavy hand up to shade them from the light, and he started to recognise his surroundings. 

He was in a small room, sitting in an uncomfortable chair. There was a window showing a huge oak tree outside, leaves bursting with colour. In front of the window was a table, atop which sat a vase full of cream-coloured tulips. And in front of him was a bed. 

Johannah was sleeping peacefully, propped up by soft, fluffy pillows. She looked a lot thinner than he remembered, a sallowness to her cheeks that almost hurt to look at. 

She stirred under his watchful gaze, then blinked up at him. 

“Oh,” she rasped out, then started coughing. Harry lurched forwards, grasping her hand and helping her into a sitting position. Her coughs subsided after a moment, and he swept his gaze over the bedside table, spotting a glass of water. 

He picked it up and held it out to her. 

She took it gratefully and drank her fill.   
  
Harry waited patiently for her to gather herself, and tried to organise his thoughts. He’d traded himself for her, hadn’t he? So why was he here? 

Johannah put the empty glass back on the table shakily, then looked at him. Her hair was matted, like she’d been sleeping fitfully for a long time. 

He stood on two shaky legs, then gestured towards the door, then back to his chair. 

She leant back against her pillows with a frown. “You’re coming back?” 

Harry nodded, then hesitated. He darted forwards and pressed a quick kiss to her forehead, causing a small smile to grace her lips, then he turned and walked from the room.

He was grateful that he wasn’t still wearing pyjamas. Instead, he was dressed in the same cream-coloured ensemble that he’d found himself in the first time he’d woken up in this world. 

He was beginning to suspect he knew what had happened, but he squashed the feeling down. He’d had enough of getting his hopes up.

It didn’t take long to find a nurse, and the expression on her face when she saw Johannah sitting up in bed told Harry everything he needed to know. 

Johannah Tomlinson had very nearly died. 

Harry leant against the wall as the nurse checked her over, afraid if he tried to stand on his own after that realisation he’d collapse. Had Louis known how bad she’d gotten?    


The nurse beamed at him, then at Johannah. “Your heartbeat feels strong again, Jay. I’ll have Dr. Patrick come in and do a few more tests, but it looks hopeful. I’m so glad to see you awake again.”

Harry let out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. He waved to get the nurse’s attention, then held his hand to his ear in the shape of a telephone receiver. 

“Yes, thank you, Harry,” Johannah agreed, smiling brighter than the sun outside. “Could you call my son Louis for me, Agatha? I’m sure he’d like to hear the good news.”

Agatha nodded, smile just as wide as Jay’s. “Of course, love. Right away.”

She passed Harry on the way out of the door and nodded to him, then hurried down the hallway, skirts billowing in her haste. 

“How long have I been asleep, Harry?” Johannah asked. 

Harry shook his head as he approached. He sat back down in the chair he’d woken up in and shrugged helplessly. 

Then, he thought about it. He could at least tell her the last time the girls had been allowed to visit her. 

He held up two fingers. 

She frowned. “Two days?” Then, at Harry’s downturned lips, her face fell. “Two weeks?”    
  
Harry nodded. 

She leant her head back against the wall above her bed and sighed. 

“No wonder my legs feel like a newborn calf’s,” she joked. 

Harry snorted soundlessly, then met her sparkling gaze. They laughed together for a moment, and the room felt full of warmth. 

Harry stayed with her, talking about meaningless things until the door was thrown open rather suddenly. 

Harry turned to look over his shoulder, and his eyes filled with tears. Louis was standing in the doorway, and he looked...haggard. His hair was a mess, like he’d run a hand through it far too many times, and his eyes were red-rimmed and puffy. His shirt was buttoned unevenly, and his pants were crinkled. It looked like he’d thrown on whatever clothes he first saw in the space of ten seconds. 

But despite all of that, he looked so young, standing in that doorway. There was a moment when he took in the two inhabitants of the room, and his face just… broke. 

“Mum?”

Johannah reached her hands out towards him, and he practically launched himself towards her. She pulled him so tight against her chest—tighter than a doctor would recommend, in her fragile state—and turned her head into his hair, breathing him in. 

“I can’t believe you’re awake,” he said. “I hoped—I hoped so much, but I didn’t think–”

Johannah shushed him. “Its okay, boobear. I’m okay.”

Louis pulled back, wheeling on Harry. 

“That was the most fucking stupid thing I’ve ever seen anyone do,” he spat. “And I don’t even think I know  _ what  _ you did, but–”

He looked back at his mum, then at Harry. “Are you okay? Did it take anything from you?”    
  
Harry shook his head. Louis sagged against the bed, hand still clasped in his mother’s. She looked so confused by the argument in front of her, but made no move to interrupt. 

“Thank god,” Louis breathed out. He tipped his head up to the ceiling for a moment, and Harry caught a glimpse of the worry Louis must have been feeling since he’d disappeared (and he realised he hadn’t yet asked how long it had been) slip away. 

Harry reached a hand up towards Louis unsurely, letting it hover over his chest. Louis looked back down at him, then caught his hand in his own.    
  
“Did you know, mother,” Louis said, tangling their fingers and staring directly at Harry. “That this one left me this morning before I could tell him that I love him, too?”

Harry’s eyes widened. He looked between Louis’ stoic face and Johannah’s now bemused expression. 

“That was very rude of you, Harry,” she said, sounding like she was trying not to laugh. 

Harry shrugged helplessly, then looked back at Louis. 

Louis was still staring at him so intensely. 

Harry lifted his brows then tilted his head to the side. He squeezed Louis’ hand, willing him to understand the question he was being asked.  

Louis leaned down slowly, and Harry thought for a moment that he was about to be kissed in front of Johannah Tomlinson. But then, Louis’ lips went passed his cheek and hovered over his ear. 

“Yes,” Louis whispered. Harry closed his eyes against the sudden flood of emotion. “I mean it.”

“Mummy!” 

Louis pulled away just in time for two small bodies to collide with the bed.

“Are you feeling okay? Can we come up?” Daisy asked, practically vibrating with excitement. 

Jay laughed fondy, untangling her hand from Louis’ and opening her arms. “Yes, thank you, my lovely. I’m feeling much better.” 

Phoebe launched herself onto the bed a second before her sister, snuggling into her mother’s chest. Louis watched them fondly, then turned to a guilty-looking Geraldine loitering in the hallway. 

“What happened to waiting in the car, hm?” he asked, without any heat. Geraldine relaxed and walked into the room, smiling in greeting to Johannah. 

“Good afternoon, Ms. Tomlinson. Good to see you in such high spirits.”

Johannah beamed at her. “Gerry, how could I be in low spirits on a day as lovely as today?” 

Geraldine’s eyes shone. “Indeed, M’lady. Indeed.”

Louis opened his mouth to add something, but then Lily burst in with Felicite and Charlotte, and the room was filled with warm greetings and hugs once more. 

Louis was on the edge of it all, hovering behind Harry’s chair with a hand on his shoulder like if he stopped touching Harry he might disappear again. 

Harry tried to gauge his expression by looking up, but Louis had only huffed a soft laugh and tilted his head back down to the happy reunion. 

The sun was low in the sky by the time Dr. Patrick knocked on the door, ready to take Johannah away and perform the sort of tests that would tell them if their celebrating was premature. 

Harry wasn’t worried, and his calm seemed to influence the girls, as well. They all waved goodbye to their mother and allowed themselves to be herded back into the two cars they’d taken here—Geraldine driving one, Louis the other. 

Harry looked out the window all the way home, trying to name the feeling that itched under his skin. It had him full to bursting, this feeling; it was in his chest and his heart and his head. 

He found its name when Louis turned onto their street, the trees along the road so familiar, marking their way home.    
  
_ Hope.  _

 

🜾🜾🜾

 

Dinner was the longest experience of Harry’s thousand-year-old life.    
  
He spent all of it staring at Louis, drinking his fill of the man he’d very nearly lost. 

He was only here because he’d finally,  _ finally  _ managed to get the right answer on the spirit’s test. And he wasn’t going to waste a second of the life he’d earned. 

Starting now. 

He put the little ones to sleep as he always did, and wished Lottie and Fizzy sweet dreams on his way past their rooms. 

He stopped once he’d reached Louis’ door, then pushed it open. 

He wasn’t here yet, still caught up chatting with Lily and Geraldine at the dining table. But he’d be here soon. 

Harry pulled off his suit jacket and his waistcoat. He hesitated for a moment, studying his expression in the mirror on Louis’ vanity. 

He heard footsteps approaching before he could make his mind up, Louis’ melodic voice wishing his sisters a good night. He came to a stop when he reached his room, leaning his shoulder against his doorway as he took in Harry. 

“Is it true, that you watched me through that glass in the castle I saw in our dreams?”

Harry stared at his feet for a moment. He couldn’t puzzle the emotion clouding Louis’ voice, but it was thick and heavy. 

He looked up and nodded. 

Louis cocked his head. 

“How long?” 

This time, his voice was gentler. 

Harry didn’t break their eye contact as he put up three fingers, then dropped his hand so the fingers formed an ‘m’ in the air. 

Louis pursed his lips. He looked away for a moment, fidgeting with his fringe. 

In all the things he knew about Louis Tomlinson, how he would react to this news wasn’t one of them. Perhaps that’s why he’d never told him, before. 

When Louis looked back at Harry, there was a twist to his mouth that wasn’t there a moment ago. 

“That’s very creepy, love.” His voice had turned to melted sugar, to the caramel frosting Lily used on her chocolate pudding. "And also, you're fired."

Harry snorted and stepped closer to him. 

Louis did as well, closing the door. 

“What did you see that made you–” Louis started, then shook his head. “Nevermind. I don’t need to know.”   
  
Harry disagreed. He pointed to his eyes, then his temple, then to Louis. 

Just Louis. 

Louis took another step closer. “That’s possible the vaguest answer you’ve given me so far, H,” he teased. 

Harry grinned and shrugged. 

Louis stepped closer. 

They were in the middle of the room together now, one foot apart. 

Harry took Louis’ hand gently, held it close to his chest for a moment. Louis let him, his only reaction a small twitch to his brow.

Harry lifted Louis’ knuckles to his mouth as his free hand searched for a pen in his pocket. By some miracle, his fingers made purchase on one, and he pulled out. Louis’ eyebrows rose, fingers twitching in Harry’s hold. 

Harry used his mouth to uncap it, refusing to let go, then lowered the nib to hover over Louis’ hand. 

He waited for Louis’ nod before he brought it down, writing two short words on the skin of Louis’ ring finger. 

_ I’m yours.  _

It wasn’t the answer to the question Louis had asked, but… wasn’t it?

Louis bit his lip as he read the words. He blinked a few times, then looked up at Harry. 

“Give me that,” he hissed, snatching the pen. Then, he twisted his hand out of Harry’s grip, taking Harry’s hand instead. “You’ve done far too many grand romantic gestures today, H, a man can’t keep up,” he muttered, scrawling something against Harry’s ring finger. 

(A mirror, a cycle, a balance.) 

_ I’m yours, too,  _ it said, smudgy and barely legible.

Harry hadn’t seen three more beautiful words in his entire life. 

Louis tucked the pen back in Harry’s pocket gently, then pushed a curl behind his ear. 

“Come on, lets go to bed,” he whispered. 

Harry sniffled and nodded. 

Louis smiled, and tugged him towards the bed. “Do I get to hold you again?”

Harry laughed and pushed him down onto the mattress. Louis bounced a few times, then beamed up at him. “No?” he drew out, starfishing on the sheets. “So you’re holding me tonight?”

Harry rolled his eyes as he crawled on top of him, then shut him up with a kiss. 

And this time, when Louis' hardness pressed against his own, he pressed back. 

There was no one on this earth he would ever trust as much as Louis Tomlinson, and there was no one else he'd want to give himself to because of it. 

 

🜾🜾🜾

 

**Two years later**

 

_ Harry, what’s the sign for ‘b r a i d’?  _

Harry smiled and crouched down. Fittha was staring at him a little sheepishly, like she was embarrassed she hadn’t learnt everything yet, even though it was only her first month of classes. Harry showed her the sign she was asking for, and she copied his movements until she’d perfected it. 

Then, she turned towards Juno, who was chatting with Oscar—his first pupil, who still attended class once a week despite being better than Harry was at signing at this point. Harry still remembered learning sign language together with him, the  _ proper  _ language. 

She tapped Juno’s shoulder to get her attention, then said,  _ your braid is very pretty, Juno.  _

Juno blushed, and Harry couldn’t help but grin. He glanced at the clock on the wall, then sliced a hand through the air to get everyone’s attention. 

_ Great work today, everyone,  _ he said, making sure to keep his movements slow and precise for the few in the class that were still picking up the basics. He’d been running this school for a year, and twenty students was the most he’d ever had. He’d been worried that he wouldn’t be able to give everyone the attention they needed, but Louis had been right as always; everything was turning out fine.  _ I’ll see you tomorrow. Lily has some cakes in the kitchen for you while you wait for your parents.  _

Emily cheered loudly, and two of the hearing students in his class winced. Harry smiled at them all as they walked from the room one at a time, still chatting amongst themselves. Harry waited until they had all left before he started clearing the room up.   
  
Crafting time had definitely left a mess, but it was worth it for all the new drawings he’d gotten to pin up on the walls.    
  
“Hiya, love. Class all done for today?” 

Harry grinned automatically, then turned to Louis. He nodded, making his way over to him for a kiss. 

Louis hummed against his lips, pulling back after a moment. “How would you feel about coming out with the lads tonight? To the Red Canary?”

Harry pursed his lips, pretending to think about it. He stepped back so his hands were free, then said,  _ only if you wear your red suspenders.  _

Louis choked. “Excuse me? Last time I wore those in public you practically mauled me in front of my senior editor  _ and _ his wife, they wouldn’t look me in the eye for months–”

Harry huffed, interrupting Louis’ dramatics.  _ They should have knocked.  _

“More like  _ you  _ should have locked the door,” Louis countered, hand on his waist and eyebrows high. 

Harry shook his head with a grin.  _ I love you so much.  _

Louis’ fake-outrage slipped away in a second.  _ I love you too,  _ he signed back, then pressed a quick kiss to Harry’s lips. 

“Now, come on,” he said, tugging Harry from the room, “before your students eat the entire kitchen.”  
  
Harry allowed himself to be dragged, laughing as he went. 

 

🜾🜾🜾

 

The club was as smoky as he remembered it being. They'd been back a few times, most recently to celebrate the completion of Louis' latest novel. It was in the process of being edited now, and Louis was starting to get nervous about all the readings and signings and public appearances he'd agreed to do in exchange for the permission to write something different, next time. Something other than Doris. 

Liam and Louis were at the bar ordering them some drinks, and Harry was sitting with Zayn and Niall chatting about their recent expedition into the forest. They'd managed to see some exciting species, and even though Harry could admit he still found birdwatching boring he liked their company enough to come along with them when he could. 

The band was in full swing, dance floor filling up by the time Louis and Liam arrived with everyone's drinks. 

 _What are we toasting?_ Harry asked, and the table was suspiciously quiet. 

"To a happy April?" Niall attempted, looking around for support. 

Zayn and Liam latched on to the toast, and Harry could have sworn he saw Louis roll his eyes in that special exasperated way he did when he wasn't  _actually_ annoyed. 

Interesting. 

The five of them drank their beers Louis answered questions about what everyone had been up to since they'd been out last—Jay's latest tactic to for tiring the twins out, Fizzy's new girlfriend, the stray cat Lily had bullied them all into taking in—but Harry couldn't shake the feeling that he was hiding something. 

"I'll be right back," Louis whispered in his ear, once the drinks were nothing but dregs and everyone was ready to dance the night away. "I'll meet you out there."

Harry smiled and nodded, following the other boys to the dance floor. He lost sight of the direction Louis had gone in the crowd, then Zayn distracted him by pulling him into a lopsided two-step. 

Louis hadn't appeared by the time the song had died down, and Harry had resorted to craning his neck over the crowd in search of an angel in red suspenders. 

"Alright, everybody, we've got a very special treat for you all tonight. Here at the Red Canary, we love love. In honour of that, I'm going to welcome a guest singer for this next one."

Harry turned back to the stage with wide eyes. The low, raspy voice of the band's lead singer rung in his ears as he watched Louis take to the stage, waving at the crowd with a hesitant smile. 

He shook the lead singer's hand on his way past, then made his way to the spotlight. It was only a small stage in a small bar, but Louis looked as nervous as if he was singing for a crowd of thousands.

"Hi, I'm Louis," he said, voice somehow carrying over the din of the bar. "And I'm here to sing a song for that man right there," he pointed at Harry, grinning when Harry pretended to look behind himself, "in the hopes that he'll be more likely to say yes when I ask him to marry me tomorrow."

The crowd went  _wild,_ and Harry's heart soared. They'd never discussed marriage, but Harry had been working on a proposal plan for months anyway. He supposed he'd have to scrap it, now. He couldn't find it in himself to be upset about that. 

Especially not when the song started playing, and he recognised it as the one Louis had played him two years ago when he'd been trying to guess his taste in music. 

Louis' voice suited the song so well, and the bar went silent so they might listen to him sing his heart out. Harry's cheeks hurt from smiling, he couldn't seem to stop. Louis just looked so beautiful up there, singing about walks by the brookside and nightingale calls at night. 

The song ended far too quickly for Harry's taste, and soon enough Louis was back in the audience, pushing his way towards Harry. 

"Hi." Louis was breathless by the time he reached him, and Harry pulled him in by his suspenders for a kiss. A few people around them started clapping and cheering, and neither Harry nor Louis could stop smiling long enough to kiss properly, but it was magical all the same. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! There's a fic post over on my [tumblr](http://graceling-in-a-suit.tumblr.com/post/181098847130/you-came-just-like-a-flower-in-my-darkest-hour) if you wanna go chuck that a reblog :) lots of love xx


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